


The Yellow Notebook (The Suit-Up Edition)

by ImpossibleElement



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Humor, Inspired by How I Met Your Mother, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV Alternating, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Suits, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7804579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpossibleElement/pseuds/ImpossibleElement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John locks a door Sherlock carelessly closed, the detective was bound to want to get inside, even if that meant getting in through the metaphorical window. Well, when I say metaphorical...</p><p>"Stories like this don’t usually start this way, with offences being fired back and forth. There are names that are in cases permitted, but there are always a few things that should never be said. There are things that cross the line, and there is also always someone who uses them and turns the situation into something serious. This time was no exception."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unlovable

**Author's Note:**

> This work is loosely based on a plot line of the series How I Met Your Mother. If you haven't seen it, or don't like it, please know that you can read it and understand everything. None of the actual characters of HIMYM appear.
> 
> For those of you who have seen it, you know where this is going. Also, there are a few nods to the original hidden not very subtly in the narration.
> 
> Hope you all like it.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=34yqzc8)

 

 

###  **The Yellow Notebook (The Suit-Up Edition) **

 

 

 

 

 

 

> Suits. A fancy set of outer clothes made out of the same fabric; designed and fabricated to be worn together. Usually consisting of a jacket and trousers, sometimes a waistcoat. Its uses have varied through the years as society changes its perceptions and ways of life. It is worn in special occasions, grieving gatherings, as part of an everyday work-related uniform, or simply to impress your fellow individuals. It is believed that whenever someone wears a well-fitted suit, their position in the world instantly changes, the sense of self-importance grows exponentially and society will immediately think you a different person. A suit can give you higher peer-status, more chances of standing out from a crowd and if you are a consulting detective, it could very well be your distinctive look. 
> 
>  
> 
> Nevertheless, the word “Suit” (derived from the French word _Suite_ , meaning “following”) has a number of different meanings and applications that go way beyond the wearable and fashionable. It could refer to a complete set of separate pieces to form armors in ancient times as protection. Or, when spoken in imperative, could often translate into an expression of the speaker’s annoyance as an order to act entirely according to one’s wishes.
> 
>  
> 
> On occasions, it can be used as a verb, in order to describe the enhancement of the features of something, to comment on a thing that goes well with some other. And it can also behave as a noun, as in the process of trying to win someone’s affection, typically with a view of marriage; a prospect. In the archaic sense of the word, it means the act of adapting or making something appropriate for a certain purpose. To improve or amend something in order to expose previously hidden abilities that are worthy of a new intent. 
> 
>  
> 
> However, our story won’t really be about suits, not in the first meaning of the word anyway, nor would it tell a tale gravitating around them and depicting them as a mayor tipping point for the characters. In fact, suits are not actually displayed more than briefly and as anything more than trivial in the whole of it. So if you, dear reader, have come here looking for a grandiose suit-filled narration to satisfy your sartorial fascination, I regret to inform you that you have arrived at the wrong place. But that’s life, you see? You never end up where you thought you would be. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** Chapter 1: Unlovable **

 

Sherlock found this strange happenings beginning at a crime scene. As anything else on his life, there was always a case to pin it into his timeline, making murders a measure of time in which everything seemed to be lengthen. To be fair, it was not Sherlock’s fault this time —even if he initiated the insults— and the detective still didn’t know how to wrap his mind around it.

Stories like this don’t usually start this way, with offenses being fired back and forth until there is nothing more to the air around them but insolence. In situations such a this, there are names that are in cases permitted, hateful remarks that are even encouraged, but there are always a few things that should never be said. There are things that cross the line, and there is also always someone who uses them and turns the childish and ridiculous banter into something serious. This time was no exception, cue one Sergeant Sally Donovan.

“We’re not letting you use the child.” She screamed at the top of her lungs. She was clearly distressed and completely missing the point that making the son act as a bait would not mean the child would definitely and without a doubt die. Stupid human, according to Sherlock.

“If you want to catch your killer, you will.” He responded with the same venom, just more exasperated at the idiocy he was certain everyone in the world was portraying today just to annoy him.

“Forget it, Freak.” She snarled, and John, who had been silently observing the exchange, stood up a bit straighter at the mention of that insult, he hated when the sergeant calls his friend that. No matter if Sherlock never appeared to be bothered by it; it did bother the doctor to no end. “What do you think the family of the kid would say about this? Just because _you’re_ unlovable doesn’t mean-” And that was the last straw for John’s temperament.

“Okay, that’s enough.” The blogger cut her off harshly. Earning a few curious looksfrom the Yard team, directing their stares at the interruption. “Look, I know he earns some of those insults but you won’t ever call him that again.” He took a few strides and placed himself slightly between Sally and Sherlock. Almost as if he could make a physical barrier between his friend and her jagged mouth.

“John.” The detective tried to stop him, he knew where this was heading. Every time he saw that look on his flatmate’s face, he knew John was steeling for a fight, and once the battle had started, he was unlikely to back down. The only upside to this situation was that, for once, he wasn’t on the receiving end of this glare.

“Why not?” Sally questioned, as both of them continued their altercation as if he hadn’t talked at all. By then, all the police and interns at the crime scene had stopped working and were just waiting to see what would happen. This whole situation was new. Because while Sherlock and the sergeant always were at each other’s throats, the soldier had never intervened. Until now.

“Because it’s not true.” The blogger was constantly clenching his left fist, as he always did when he was trying to stop himself from doing something he knew he shouldn’t do, but wanted so badly to accomplish. The woman, however, seemed dubious.

“Oh yeah, and you would know?” This was one of those times when the tensionbuilds up to the point where everybody just waits for the other shoe to drop. The inevitable breath before the plunge. Every single time something akin to this was asked or even suggested to either one of the crime-solving duo halves, they all got the same answer: rolled eyes and exasperation from one, or belligerent denial about one’s homosexuality from the other. 

However, John looked decided now. Determined to defend his case at all costs, reason why he took a deep breath and said, “I know because Sherlock and I are in love.”

There was a collective gasp at the scene, as the biggest rumor that has ever made its way into the wages board at Scotland Yard was confirmed. Astonishment painted the faces of those present, including Sherlock himself, who couldn’t understand why was John doing this. “John, what are you-” He started before being cut off.

“I’m taking care of something you refuse to take care of on your own.” John said dismissively, as if that was explanation enough for the huge statement he just vented to a lot conformed by people who had been obsessed on taking any aspect of their private lives and using it against them, and Lestrade. Lestrade is actually quite tolerable.

Even Anderson looked dumbstruck at the revelation, but Donovan suspected there could be more to what it was seemingly happening, so she pressed on. “Yeah right, like I would believe anyone could love-”

“I do, I love him.” John declared, not even sparing a glance back to his flatmate behind him, who was so surprised he could barely talk when he spoke, “John, it’s fine, you don’t have to-” Lie. _You don’t have to lie_ , was how the sentence was supposed to go. But his friend clearly didn’t care about what he was saying, as he simply continued talking, trying to convince them of something that, by the detective’s collected data, was only half true.

“I love everything about him.” The blogger began. “And I’m not a man who would say that lightly. I’m a man who has been straight as an arrow his whole life. I thought a man would never come anything close to interesting me.” Eyebrows were being shot to the ceiling the more he spoke. People just couldn’t believe this was actually happening.“But this man has a hold in my heart that I could not break even if I wanted to. And there have been times that I’ve wanted to.” After uttering this, he turned to see the genius for the first time since the tirade began. His voice held such honesty and his face was so open, that Sherlock almost felt like he meant it. 

“It has been overwhelming, and humbling, and even painful at times. But I could not stop loving him any more than I could stop breathing even when he was supposed to be dead. I am hopelessly, irretrievably, in love with him. More than he will ever know.”He ended, and there was a pregnant silence coming from all corners of the tiny flat at which they were all cramped. The present team had clearly believed him this time. Nevertheless, the pair of stares that held more significance were the ones being given to each other by the two friends. The curly-haired man could almost dare to hope there was something unspoken between them.

“Blimey!” Greg was the one who broke the silence first. Running a hand through his face as if to rid it from the shock that was surely showing. He honestly couldn’t begin to understand what just happened.

Sally cleared her throat and reluctantly decided to take her words back after being proven wrong so dramatically. “Well, I guess I owe you an apology, freak. You actually found someone even crazier than you.” She said half-heartedly. As if the sting that her words would cast wasn’t as fun anymore.

John, tired of the tense atmosphere and the drama, grabbed a fistful of consulting detective by the coat and started to lead him out of the scene. “Okay, we’re done here.” He said, not being able to stand the childish behavior and his own anger any longer. “Sherlock will text you the answer to your murder tomorrow morning.” He assured Lestrade, who had always been a decent bloke with them, and was wearing a mixed expression between pride and gladness for them now that the surprise had vanished.

John tugged the still shocked detective out of the building and into a cab.

 

* * *

 

 

“And the Oscar for the best fake romantic speech goes to: John Watson!” The army doctor joked in the back of a cab, giggling at the memory of the faces the team had made at his _revelation_. “I’d like to thank Mrs. Hudson for all the times she sat me down in front of the telly to watch soap operas with her,” He said with an acted voice, as if roleplaying an actual award ceremony; which made his flatmate chuckle under his breath. “And of course, Sherlock Holmes for being so throughout at pissing people off that he needed me to come and save him.” The smile the blogger casted towards Sherlock was one of delight and that sort of giddiness one gets just after a mischief. Smirking toward the man sitting next to him as if teasing his lack of subtlety.

Said detective scoffed, with a pretended flair of outrage. “I didn’t need your help. I had the situation under control.” And the corners of his mouth were unconsciously tugging upwards, even if John could see a hidden sentiment behind them. Disappointment?

The blonde laughed, because it was the only thing to do after such a ridiculous statement. “We were this close of having to pry her away from you after having hit you square in the jaw.” He said skeptically. 

Sherlock shrugged and dismissed it, for it was obvious she would never do such an idiotic thing as trying to lay a hand in him; John would kill her if she ever dared, woman or not. He sighed and looked out the window for a moment, the passing cars and blurring images of the city bringing forth a memory he had had nagging at his mind for more than 10 minutes now. “I’ll give you this: you were quite convincing.” 

“I told you my acting skills had improved ever since the 36 hour marathon of bad telly you made me watch for that case.” His friend replied, smirking at having proved Sherlock wrong about his ability to fake, or lie, or deceive; actually anything that involved acting.

However, Sherlock was no longer giggling with him. He had taken a more serious tone and his eyes gazed at him with suspicion. He put a hand on his blogger’s chest as if to prevent him from talking any longer, willing him to see what he meant. “No, I mean, you were _really_ convincing.” John could recognize the sort of look he was getting from his friend, he had seen it before countless of times, but it was almost always directed at corpses and suspects. That spark of deducting just trying to make sense of the clues in front of him, questioning their validity.

John smiled honestly, and tore his gaze from the detective to look at where his hand was making contact. Sherlock, finally aware of the the location of said limb, let it fall from his flatmate’s chest to the seat of the cab, suddenly self-conscious of his own actions. 

The soldier decided to break the silence. “Please, you’re my mate.” He said, and he saw something akin to hurt pass through the detective’s face before regaining its former composure. “I wasn’t going to let her talk to you like that, no matter how much you provoked her.” The intensity of their stares could only be measured in large quantities, both of them sizing the other up. Gauging for a reaction, one with smugness, the other with confusion. Curiously enough, these roles were reversed from how everyone else would have thought them to be.

“I’m just glad they bought it so quickly.” The doctor added, still with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye. “Any longer,” John’s gaze was strong and challenging, and suddenly Sherlock felt ridiculously vulnerable at that slight pause in his speech, in which his flatmate shoot an eyebrow up at him. “I’d have had to kiss you.” 

Surprise was evident on the detective, but the staring match was only broken by alternating gazes between the other’s eyes and lips. A tension so great, loaded with hidden layers of meaning. “I-” Was all the discombobulated silver-gazed man was able to say before he was interrupted by the cabbie letting them know that had reached Baker Street. 

The spell was broken, and while the detective fumbled to grasp at what just had happened, John had happily paid the driver and was already unlocking the door to the flat. Once Sherlock got out of the cab and entered 221B, he could hear the soldier’s merry steps on the stairs, already cheerfully making their way up to have a good night’s rest.

 

 

 


	2. The Borrowed Blue Glittery Hat

** Chapter 2: The Borrowed Blue Glittery Hat **

 

 

One week later saw the detective and his blogger laughing hysterically on their way up the stairs to their flat. The case had been amazing. Complicated and engaging right from the start. With a very clever ring of criminals, well thought-out strategies, brilliant deductions, and a miraculous chase around a very peculiar circus. 

Lestrade had called them —John, since Sherlock was sulking at that moment— and asked them to come. Once they arrived, an strategically placed victim had sent them into a three-day whirlwind of excitement and adrenaline while the doctor tried to keep up with his mad yet genius friend. Sherlock spouting off theories and John complimenting him and writing notes in that yellow notebook he had bought specifically for occasions such as this. 

The bad guys had been rather intelligent, and had managed to drug more than a dozen people —including Sherlock who was in that moment trying to deduce the facts— with mild Nitrous oxide. With every officer currently in a high-like behaviour state, it caused it to be the most hilarious crime scene anyone in the Yard had ever encountered. Nobody had imagined solving a murder could be so difficult while trying to grab a hold of your humour. 

Thankfully for the detective, he was quite accustomed to a feast of drugs and substances, and the effects weren’t nearly as much in scale as in everyone else who inhaled the gas. Specially his dear flatmate, who was returning from a round in the perimeters of the circus tent laughing with Lestrade about something; Sherlock deduced that if they had been infected with the gas too, it was probably about _anything_. 

As soon as John saw him, he smiled, and the detective himself was giggling for apparently no reason. Chuckling, the doctor reached inside his jacket to produce his lately beloved yellow notebook and read a bit of the page in which he was likely writing earlier. Once he started snickering so hard he had to put one hand to his mouth to stifle it, he gave up on the case notes and made his way to the curly haired man. 

With the whole team too preoccupied to make any progress, Sherlock took it upon himself —and his companion— to do the entire search of the circus prop storage. Which resulted in procuring the murder weapon and shamelessly playing with it a bit. Honestly, that was mainly John, who appeared to be the most drugged of the whole team. After that, it was all a blur of deductions and chasing and the criminal was apprehended. 

The surprisingly calm, and not at all humoured Lestrade, let them go home on the condition of returning the day after to give their statements, when they both would be sober and well-rested. So off they went, in a cab that seemed much more funny than it was and they found themselves joyfully laughing at their flat.

“It was brilliant!” Sherlock shouted, and John made an uncontrolled gesture to make him quiet and not wake Mrs. Hudson. “That bit with you tackling him wearing that.” And he pointed to the blonde’s hair, on which sat a supposedly “borrowed” blue glittery hat. The doctor laughed again.

“Not better than you deducing the trapezist’s wife affair wearing those glasses.”The soldier was referring to a pair of entertainment spectacles that made you look like you only had one eyebrow along with a giant nose and a moustache, which he had put on his flatmate’s face, and since it was John who did it, Sherlock decided they could stay there for a while.

Sherlock threw his coat carelessly unto the floor, and whirled around giggling, both of them taking off the silly objects, still high on the gas and adrenaline. He stared at his friend and said. “God, it was Christmas!” And both of them broke into a fit of laughter. John standing up after giving up with trying to fumble out of his boots. “It was good.” Said the musician with an uncharacteristic goofy smile. “I had fun.”

“Me too.” Replied the doctor giggling. “I always have fun with you.” This time more serious. Looking intently at him. The detective saw something shift in his friend’s vision, and his expression turned from elation to determination; before he could properly deduce the look his blogger was giving him, said flatmate took a step towards him and, after grabbing his face with both hands, he crashed their lips together. 

It took approximately 0.7 seconds for Sherlock to get his head around what was happening, and following a quick reciprocation, it took him another 2.3 seconds to realise what a terrible idea this was. John was —and he never thought he would say this— high. He will definitely regret it come morning, and Sherlock did not want to see remorse for something of this nature painting the doctor’s face. Turning him down now would be awkward, and John would probably sulk for a few hours, if not days; but it would be less damaging to their friendship in the long run. So, with a surprisingly reluctant movement, he pushed John away from him. Muttering “Wow” from the shock.

“I’ve got to- um.” The silver-eyed man said signalling his bedroom, since words seemed to have failed him. “Um John, we can’t do _this_.” A motion with his hand indicated the space between the two of them, somehow this was one of the most difficult things the sleuth had ever done, and he did fake his death for two years.

“Ok.” Said his friend with a small voice and sudden nervous attitude. Nodding his head to show he understood, but furrowing his brow as if he didn’t really know what was happening. His belligerence from earlier completely gone.

It broke Sherlock’s heart to do this, up to a point when he even wondered if it was worth it, but the vacant look from the soldier reminding him of his state gave him the resolution he needed. “This can’t happen.” And it was true. John would never want to do this if he were sober. And even if he did, the detective was not sure he would be able to raise to the standards by which the doctor clearly played. He would disappoint him in the end, and it was really so much better off this way. These _things_ were really not his area. “I- I’ve got to go.” He swirled around, confused and upset, to flee to the sanctuary of his own chambers, where he could hide and think away the problem until he had deleted the whole event.

“Wait,” Muttered the other with a hurt expression, but his friend was already gone, and the sitting room felt eerily empty.

 

 


	3. I’m Done

 

 

** Chapter 3: I’m Done **

 

The next two days were nothing but awkward for the crime-solving duo. Being weekend and with no cases to go on, they were sort of trapped in the flat with no one but themselves and it had turned complicated rather quickly. They didn’t fight, of course. Nor they talked about what had happened, which the detective was surprisingly starting to suspect would be better than what they were really doing: acting as if nothing had happened when it clearly had.

Every time they exchanged words they ended up feeling as if they had rehearsed what to say, no matter how casual the topic at hand was; it always felt sort of _fake_. On the morning of the second day, John asked as he did every other break of day. “Good morning. How are you?” He knew better than to ask if the detective had slept, after a case he always spent a lot of time resting in order to gain back the energy he had spent while being awake for too long. 

“Great. You?” His friend answered with an uncharacteristic cheer that just had to be to make up for the guilt he felt about turning his friend down. He paced the sitting room with his violin in hand, looking for something with which he could distract himself.

John stared after his flatmate’s trail. “Really great-” He cut himself off, he was tired of this fallacy, he had to discuss it with Sherlock. The doctor cleared his throat and said. “Listen, can we talk for a second?” He motioned to the other armchair so the younger man would sit down in front of him.

Sherlock hesitated for a second, but then obliged and lowered his body on his usual spot. The blogger took a deep calming breath and started. “I noticed it’s been rather weird between us these days, and I don’t want it to be.” He scratched the back of his neck nervously as he waited for the other man to acknowledge reality.

“Me neither.” He finally replied, caressing his violin as if it could give him all the answers he was needing in that moment. He didn’t want to muck this up and lose everything he had in the process.

“So I just wanted to say: I’m done.” Said the soldier with finality. However, Sherlock didn’t understand what that implied, confusion crossed his handsome features and it was all the doctor could do to not stop talking; he needed to do this, if he wanted everything to be perfect between them, he had to do this. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”

Getting more puzzled by the second the detective muttered “What do you mean?” But his voice sounded aloof, even if his mind was already buzzing, going through every scenario this conversation could lead into.

“I’m done trying to get you. I can’t do it anymore.” He admitted honestly, and he hurried to his next line before he lost the courage, pointedly ignoring the realisationdawning on his friend’s face. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to figure it out, but I promise, Sherlock, I’m done making a fool of myself.”

This was news for Sherlock, he didn’t know that’s what the blogger was trying to do. He didn’t even know John was attracted to him. It had always seemed too impossible, too _utopian_ to even consider. It was just his luck that his deductive abilities would fail him in such a crucial moment. However, that didn’t change the outcome of the situation, he would never be suited for a relationship, even if he wanted one with John, which he tried not to. It would only end in disaster. When he got out of his mind, he came to know he had probably stayed quiet for quite a while, and his flatmate was waiting for him to say something. “John, I assure you: you haven’t been making a fool of yourself.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock. I know I have, but hey, you’re always saying I’m the idiot.” John joked trying to lighten the mood, and judging by the expression of Sherlock it was working a bit, his shoulders weren’t as tense anymore. “So it’s all fine.”The detective nodded, showing he understood and accepted his terms. 

“Okay, so here’s what is going to happen: I’m going to make us both a cuppa and probably comment on the fact that later on you will have to ingest something other than tea.” John smirked. His companion rolled his eyes a bit and stared at him petulantly. “And you’re gonna scoff and look at me like I’m annoying but you’ll be secretly pleased that I take care of you.” John continued, making his friend smile. “And then, you’ll tell me a surprisingly funny story about how Anderson is an idiot and mucked up another crime scene, but neither one of us is going to say: I’m great how are you!” He continued with a fake tone and mocking expression. Both of them laughed at the blogger’s display of their past few days, they frankly have been sort of ridiculous. “Because we will really be great. Do you think we can do that?”

The sleuth half-smiled and nodded. “I believe we can.” 

“Perfect.” Said John as he got up to go and prepare that cuppa he promised. Sherlock stayed where he was, already replaying the conversation and storing it away in his Mind Palace for future reference. Convincing John that a relationship between them wouldn’t work had been surprisingly easy, so much that he didn’t really have to do anything. He should feel pleased, this is what he wanted.

However, as he heard -in his head- the doctor say for the second time that he was completely done with ever trying to pursue anything remotely akin to romantic with him, he felt an eerie sort of sadness inside of him. He hadn’t predicted this disappointed feeling to be present. He suddenly and irrationally regretted ever doing what he did. He didn’t know why, but the existing hurt in his chest grew bigger every time he remembered that dreadful word: _done_.

 

 


	4. The Pineapple Incident

 

 

** Chapter 4: The Pineapple Incident **

 

Okay, that was just weird. Actually Lestrade would dare to say that was the weirdest thing he has seen and will see in his entire life by far, and he is a detective inspector. 

He wasn’t talking about the poor bloke that was apparently killed with a pineapple, according to the Consulting Detective. He wasn’t even going to mention the goat that was in the bathroom of the victim’s flat. No, he was referring to the strange behaviour said madman was portraying that day. 

At first, nothing seemed to have really changed. Sherlock was pacing the room, firing up deductions, and John was taking notes on that eccentric yellow notebook he had been carrying around for a few days now. But on a closer look, the curly-haired man appeared on edge, anxious, and if Greg didn’t know better he would have said nervous. Maybe it was in the subtle hints like the way his hands would clench up when someone spoke, or how he kept brushing off the curls from his forehead even if they weren’t getting in the way of his sight. Or perhaps, it was the not so small sign of Sherlock trying —and failing— to charm his flatmate in front of the whole Yard that gave the game away. But who knows? After all, Lestrade is no Sherlock Holmes.

“John, your expert opinion... please?” This brought Greg’s out of his musings, wondering almost out loud if the detective had actually bothered to say “please” for once.

The doctor in question knelt next to the corpse and started examining it. After a few seconds he stopped to share what he had found. “It certainly looks like pineapple poisoning.” He said standing up, absently wiping his hands on his jeans. “Not that I’d ever seen pineapple poisoning before, mind you.” He chuckled to himself at the absurdity of the situation and Sherlock laughed with him. Not the usual inappropriate giggle that they sometimes shared at crime scenes and which left them amongst equally puzzled and shocked Yarders, but an unusually high-pithced laugh that, if Lestrade didn’t know any better, would call ‘ _flirty_ ’.

It was, in one word: wrong. John certainly noticed, but seemed to shrugged it off as one of his flatmate’s quirks and continued. “The dose has to have been really high to die from it, though.” The doctor explained as he moved to stand next to his friend.

“That’s- umm that’s- good, thank you.” Said detective replied, and tilted his head to smile at the blonde. Smile, not smirk. Smile. Lestrade was sure he was going to need a very strong coffee and a raise after this.

“You’re welcome, Sherlock.” Now John appeared to be becoming really bemused at the silver-gazed man manners, confused as to why exactly was his usually arrogant and dick-head of a flatmate being polite now?

“You- yes, it was very good.” Forget that coffee, according to Lestrade this warranted a pint, and a very large one at that. Sherlock tucked his hands inside his trademark coat and stared at John expectantly, yet he didn’t appear to be scrutinising him. He seemed happy enough to wait on John to say something else, anything else so he could watch it happen, not for data gathering, but for pleasure. Other yarders present began snickering and making whispered comments about the detective. That’s when the DI had enough of the unusual behaviour and decided to call Sherlock out on it. 

“Sherlock, could you come here for a second?” He said stepping out of the room, gesturing him to approach alone. 

“I could.” The detective responded, yet he did not appear to have a mind to move, still emotionally gravitating around his flatmate. John’s brow was furrowed with confusion and what could be determined as amusement. Remembering what was stalling tSherlock, Greg sighed exasperated and tried again. He was not sure why he even did. 

“ _Will_ you please come here now?” Lestrade asked, suddenly thinking deeply of what he was about to do and regretting it whole-heartedly. He knew he shouldn’t meddle, that it was better to stay on the sidelines and let this play out as it would. But he couldn’t _not_ get involved when his friend was making a fool of himself in front of his occasional co-workers, who already had him on their black lists.

“Fine.” Came the answer from a very irritated Sherlock. He tore his sight away from his best friend and walked arrogantly towards him. Letting the world know what a bother it was.

“What was that?” The inspector asked genuinely worried. He had never seen his friend in that state before, something had clearly changed and there was something very off with this whole situation. He dreaded to think how this could transform his work dynamic. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock stated, rearranging the scarf around his neck and taking a sideways glance towards his flatmate. Lestrade did not miss this detail, and sighed. This was probably going to be a bit more complicated to explain to his emotionally-repressed friend than he thought.

“I mean you, acting like an actual human being around John.” He started, seeing the brow in the other’s face start to burrow. “You flirted and stumbled over your words in front of all _Yarders_.” He explained. “Even Anderson noticed!”

Sherlock look affronted for a second, not ready for having someone point out what he was clearly denying. The moment passed quickly and the detective sighed exasperated. “First of all, you may be surprised but I do happen to be a member of the human race.” His tone was condescending, but Lestrade was not impressed. “And second: why in the world would I be _flirting_ with John? You know me, Gavin; relationships don’t interest me.” Greg chose to ignore the name and focused on the well-learned excuse; he had heard it so many times already he was sure he could repeat it as convincingly as his originator. Not that it made it any more true.

Sherlock appeared to be finished for a second, but then added. “And I made that abundantly clear to him.” He said with a smug expression. “With something I did.”The fact he was still talking about this showed Lestrade that his friend didn’t really want the discussion to be over. “Recently.”

“Fine, I’ll bite. What did you do?” Lestrade queried, partially dreading the probably difficult situation into which he was going to entangle himself, but in part very curious about what Sherlock would tell him. It was the first time his friend was actually sort of opening up about something.

The Consulting Detective scrutinised him for a second, pondering the consequences of talking about it. Looking for a tell of dishonesty on his face. He appeared to find none, so he said. “The other week John kissed me, but I renounced him. I felt awful to close the door on his face but he realised I was right, as always; and agreed we would be better off as friends anyway.” He finished, his attitude trying to be confident, coming out as slightly nervous instead.

“Ok, that explains it.” Replied Greg. It was more straightforward than he believed it would be at first. Knowing the Baker Street Duo, he expected something far more challenging than that. He was glad he could actually be of some assistance to his insufferable friend. 

Sherlock wore a confused look on his face, obviously not expecting Lestrade to follow the situation. “Explains what?” He asked and glanced around to make sure John was out of earshot. Greg smiled at how obvious Sherlock was being for once.

“You may have closed the door on him.” The DI started. “But he locked it.” 

An expression of mild surprise crossed the younger man’s face. “What?” He scoffed. “No, he didn’t.” He said as if Lestrade had suddenly gone insane. Maybe the detective didn’t even know what that meant for John and him.

“Yes, he got the last word, and now you want what you can’t have, just like you always do.” LEstrade replies, arching an eyebrow at his friend, who snarled. “You’re going to sulk about this for days, not being able to admit that you were wrong in thinking John would pursue you forever. He bruised your ego.” Greg was one hundred percent sure that was not the reason the madman was apparently upset that John just accepted the fact that it was never going to happen, but he didn’t want to dig himself into a hole-shaped argument about the real sentiment they both shared. He chose to say instead. “God knows you needed to be taken down a notch.”

Sherlock stays silent for a while, and just when the DI is sure he broke the man, the detective spoke, with a tone of voice he had never heard the man use before. “As always, you fail to observe. This is nothing like that.” He turned, ready to walk away.

“Fine, then you shall have no problem with this.” Lestrade replied, watching the tails of the other’s coat crossing the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out, Sherlock _did_ have a problem with this. 

He didn’t know why, but John just accepting his rejection so easily was getting on his last nerve. Shouldn’t he have fought a bit more if he was really so invested? It’s not like he actually wanted him to be in love with him —or at least that’s what he told himself— but he felt slightly insulted that his blogger just gave up this quickly. It did not seem logical that one failed attempt at a gesture of romantic nature and a half-hearted dismiss were all it took to get his obstinate flatmate to stop trying; there should have been words, and moves, and at least two more discussions for the result to have even been statistically relevant; yet his stout-hearted friend just decided to respect his decision and abandoned his quest, along with his determination. Having Lestrade pointing it out to him was the cherry of the ridiculous, illogical cake. 

Sherlock had already tried a few times to coax the doctor into talking about it. Setting up typical romantic scenarios that were casual enough to pass as common to see if John was just regrouping; planning his new strategy and waiting for the right moment to attack. But John did not budge, his perseverance once again completely in place. And it drove the detective crazy. 

He spent hours on his Mind Palace, trying to sort out a scheme in which he could bring out those feelings again. To show his friend, and bloody Geoff, that he was not mistaken; not incorrect in his analysis of the facts, John was just being infuriatingly stubborn. There was only one possible course of action to get into the bottom of the matter and determine the cause of why his stupidly perfect flatmate had just surrendered: He had to seduce John Watson.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support, I'd love to know your thoughts.


	5. Statistically Relevant

 

 

** Chapter 5: Statistically Relevant **

 

Sherlock had already decided he was going to make John realise that he was clearly just fooling himself at believing he could give up on him that easily. The only thing to determine now was how to get him. After that futile attempt at gathering information in the library, he resorted to a thorough research online, which proved to be more helpful and far more useful. Human attraction was just a myriad of chemical reactions happening in your brain, coupled with psychological and physiological triggers unique to each case; and he was nothing if not a scientist. He just needed to find what John found enticing and he’d be done with this by dinner.

After evaluating the data he had accumulated about John in the left wing inside his Mind Palace, he had devised an strategy that was certain to bring the doctor around. In order for it to work, he needed his best shirt and a cab.

Sherlock strolled confidently into the clinic in which John chose to spend his boring mornings instead of Baker Street. The white walls and blue floor were always enough to send an instant wave of boredom that the detective would avoid like the plague if that dull corridor did not end in John’s door. 

He approached the reception and noted that luck must not be with him that morning, since the nurse at the front was the single most annoying person on the planet, and that’s taking Anderson’s stratospheric idiocy into account. Alex, the red-headed nurse that always happened to be just the amount of nice to be insufferable to Sherlock, and who never lets him see John without asking him useless questions such as: _“Do you have an appointment?”_ or _“Are you injured?”_ or _“How’s your day?”_. Probably thinking about how she was going to waste his time trying to converse and delay his promptly visit to his friend’s occupational residence. Why on earth would anyone believe that he would want to talk to her when he could be talking to John?

Sherlock had already envisioned just ignoring her and walking right pass her, but she exclaimed: “Hello, Sherlock! How’ve you been?” The detective still kept on going, exasperated. He did not have the time nor the desire to exchange words with her, he was on a very important mission. He dodged a few other nurses on his way to John’s door; once outside, he took a deep breath and took his left arm before letting himself in. 

The doctor was sitting in a chair across a desk, listening to some other patient tell him about their symptoms when Sherlock entered making a lot of noise. “John?” He said, with a pretend edge of helplessness. The blonde took in his friend’s state and immediately stood up to get to him. “Sherlock?” He asked with concern, apparently very worried about the situation, already apologising and motioning his former patient to leave the room to be received by some other physician. The detective gave a tiny moan of pain, and clutched his arm closer to his body. “Experiment.” He explained. He knew faking an injury was a bit not good, but how else was he supposed to appeal to his flatmate’s nurturing side?

The soldier quickly batted his hand away and wrapped his own around the supposedly wounded limb. Carefully inspecting it for damage. Sherlock knew he would not find anything, but the intimacy he could achieve with this little act of running to John to fix him will definitely bring feelings and sentiment flooding back to the doctor. “What happened?” John inquired, looking up at the other’s eyes; obviously a bit puzzled on the fact that there was no sign of real injury aside from the pain.

When the detective was about to answer, bringing forth the heavy machinery - _“I need you”-_ someone else came through the door, cheerfully tearing through the perfectly balanced tension Sherlock had been purposely building. “Mister Sherlock, are you okay?” She hurried to ask once she was aware that he was clearly —although not really— hurt.

The silver-gazed man rolled his eyes and sighed, why did she just had to intrude? “Fine.” He rumbled grumpily, hoping to just dismiss her.“John, Mr. Meine is here again, says it’s an emergency.” She explained. 

“I may need to bind this up to avoid movement and exposure.” John slowly commented, searching for approval and consent on his flatmate’s face. Sherlock gave a tiny nod and then proceeded to grimace a bit to add authenticity to his fake miserable state.

“John, Mr. Meine...” Alex reminded him, and said doctor cursed softly under his breath, reluctantly letting go of his friend’s not-exactly-an-emergency arm. “Sherlock, I’m sorry, It’s an emergency.” He said heading for the door. “Alex here is more than capable of doing some binding, Behave.” This was the worst way in which the evening could have gone, not only had he failed with his mission, but now he had to endure the torture of that moron binding his uninjured arm. He tried protesting but John only responded with, _“It’s okay, I’ll see you at home.”_ and Sherlock could have just killed someone. 

“Let’s start!” The nurse said, and that alone made her the first candidate.

 

* * *

 

 

The detective had been positive this attempt was going to result in exactly what he wanted, he had planned everything, the fake stake-out at a pub, the enticing clothes to blend in, even flirting a bit with the paid blokes trying to chat him up; but so far, John decided to be infuriating and refused to budge. No matter how many strategies he would employ, the blogger just kept on taking sips of his beer and looking around for the suspect. Not even a side-ways glance, for God’s sake! 

John had always seemed like quite a possessive person. Defending and hoarding that which he deemed _“his”_ , but no attempt to spark his jealousy appeared to rouse him tonight. Sherlock even tried to sound distressed, as one of the men he had hired tried to make a pass at him; his flatmate just looked back, shook his head and chuckled a bit. As if it were in any way funny that a brute was trying to get _handsy_ with him, as if it were his fault!

John relaxed on the stool on which he was sitting and waited for the supposed robber to make an appearance. However, when long minutes seemed to go on forever and they realised he wasn’t coming, he stood up and said. “I’ll be heading home, it seems that tonight was not the night.” He took a tenner out of his pocket and handed it to the waitress behind the bar, “You coming with me or are you staying?” He asked, and Sherlock was just about to growl in frustration, John didn’t even seemed fazed with the idea of him staying behind to let himself be flirted with.In the end, he figured he had to admit defeat this time and think a different route later, he was currently not even in the mood to scheme. He sighed and followed his friend out of the pub.

 

* * *

 

 

The perfect solution came the next morning when Sherlock was recalling each and every minute detail of his kiss with John —for scientific purposes, of course— and then he almost cursed himself for being so stupid as to not recognising earlier the flawless way to achieve that which he desired. The most efficient manner to get his flatmate to admit he was not in the slightless done with pursuing a romantic relationship with him, was to reenact the situations prior to said kiss. Activity that would wake the seemingly dormant sentiment inside John and would let the detective put the matter to rest. Just so maybe he can sleep and think again.

Sherlock planned everything. Since the exact specific details were not required; he just needed an scenario of a fun case, a mad chase and his blogger in a very good mood, which he happened to be able to develop quite frequently. After the three aspects had been met, the brunette had put his plan in motion, but John waved off the insinuations as a joke; and as his flatmate made his way up to his room, Sherlock could not understand where he had gone wrong.

After the third attempt had failed, he realised he could statistically deem the mission a lost cause now. He hated when his schemes gave the wrong result. He was going to beforced to ask for a different opinion, maybe one from an expert. Which is the reason he found himself dialling a number he never thought he would use again, and prepared to collect a favour he was owed. Seriously, the things he did for John Watson.

“Well, if it isn’t the clever detective in the funny hat!” The voice from the phone cheered. Clearly delighted to receive that call.

“Irene.” He answered curtly, he knew the less time he gave her to be herself the best it would work out for himself.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" She asked, and Sherlock could even hear the smirk coming off from the speakers, impossible as that may be.

"You owe me a favour." The detective quickly replied. Not wanting to dwell in pleasantries.

"And with what could the great Sherlock Holmes possibly require my assistance?" She inquired, clearly amused that he was actually desperate enough to call asking for her help. Sherlock had an inkling she may have correctly deduced what this was about.

"John." He said, willing the universe and whichever forces conduct it to let him settle the affair with velocity. The woman was not _The Woman_ by mere chance and he felt that if he lingered for even a moment in something real, it would probably be a moment too long.

After a brief pause, the curly-haired man could hear, "Ah, I see." Coming from the voice in the speaker, "So, that means that any attempts you have made so far have been unfruitful." She commented, and he refused to acknowledge such truth. Seduction was easy for a manipulator like him, he had no idea why his methods were unsuccessful. After a long silence, she seemed to take it as admission. "Your doctor is a man with principles,” She started.

“I know, that’s why I’m trying to be subtle.” Sherlock quickly interrupted. Easily frustrated by his infuriating inability to get John to do what he wanted. 

“ _But_ he can be quite oblivious,” She continued on, almost talking over him. “You’ll have to be more...” She paused, searching for the right word to describe her meaning. “Explicit.” She finished.

“And how _the hell_ am I supposed to do that?” He asked, at his wit’s end. How could John not know what he was trying to accomplish? He thought he was being quite obvious already.

“Take a page from my book.” She stated simply, and the insinuation brought the detective to a halt. Silencing him into a stupor. Irene laughed, actually _laughed_ at this. Amused by his hesitancy. “Well, I believe that gives you a lot to think about,” She commented after realising she probably won’t get anything more out of him for now. Just before she hung up she made her final usual attempt. “Tell me how it works out. If it doesn’t, let’s have dinner. ” She said and then hung up. 

Sherlock felt he certainly had _a lot_ to think about.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, do you think Sherlock should take Irene's advice?
> 
> Let me know in the comments.


	6. The Unclothed Genius

** Chapter 6: The Unclothed Genius **

 

Sherlock had decided that maybe The Woman could be correct in her assessment of the situation. Perhaps he was planning too much or he was arranging too complicated scenarios. The solution could be a much more blunt approach, so as to erase any doubt that may arise. He quickly started gathering data, and drawing out patterns of when and where would it be best to unfold his new strategy. It would be simple, direct and straightforward, there was no way John won’t be able to take the hint. 

As this happened, the hours slipped away, and the detective found himself having to stop his marvellous scheming in order to solve an equally interesting case. The crime scenes were very gruesome and the killer did not seem to follow any traceable pattern, so it was in one word: brilliant. They spent hours trying to track the news anchor that had been butchering her victims in an admittedly impressive manner. 

The chase led them both through different parts of the town, with blood pumping through their veins, and the autumn wind howling in their ears —and also Lestrade just a couple of meters behind— It was everything Sherlock wanted it to be, he almost forgot all about his prior activities that morning, only remembering them when he heard the DI ask John if he would like to accompany him to the pub once the constables where through with handcuffing the killer and taking her to the station. 

“So, John. What do you say?” Lestrade asked. “I can be your wingman again.” He suggested at John, but strangely looked at Sherlock while saying it. The detective wondered if he was supposed to have an specific reaction to some seemingly random flight reference. 

“Yeah, I guess.” John answered absent-mindedly, then appeared to actually think it through. “Actually,” He said, and had this confused look all over his features. “I don’t think I want that.” The blogger finished, and all three men stood still, clearly puzzled by John’s decision. It wasn’t like the doctor to turn down an opportunity to chase after some woman.

“Wait, you don’t want to go out?” The detective inspector asked when he realised no one else would.

“No.” The blonde stated. “I think lately I’ve been feeling a bit tired of the whole scene,” He explained, looking at both of them in turn. “Meeting girls with whom I never seem to last more than two weeks.” John’s mind was clearly deeper in thought that he was letting on. “Who probably are just impressed with the media coverage.” He said scratching his neck with his dominant hand. 

“I just,” He paused a moment, probably wondering if he should continue, obviously self-conscious of his un-british way of talking about things. In the end he managed to soldier on. “I think I’m searching for something,” He sighed. The existential questioning was written plainly over the blonde’s face, it was a look he had never seen John display. Sherlock did not like that look. “But I have no idea what that is, you know?” He looked at them both, expectant; and Lestrade shot the detective a worried glance before turning his face and nodding at John. “Anyway, it’s fine, I just have to figure it out.” He shrugged, and gave them a small smile. 

“It’s alright, mate.” The DI patted John’s back amicably. “Anytime.” He says and takes a step back.

The side of the soldier’s mouth curls up in the first sincere hint of a smile he has seen since he started talking, and for that, the consulting detective was very grateful of Gavin. “I’m just gonna go.” John said, stuffing his cold hands in the pockets of his trousers. “See you at home later, okay?” He threw at Sherlock before walking away and disappearing into the distance.

Lestrade stood there for a minute, searching for something on his friend’s face. Sherlock never knew what he found that made him say _“if you need anything, ring me.”_ to him, but he watched him retreat right after.

If he were being truthful, the detective would admit he felt terrible for how selfish he was apparently acting towards John. He was very clearly going through some big issues for some reason or other, and there he was, planning to trap him into admitting he still harboured romantic attraction towards him. Sherlock has never been one to care much about feelings —or other people for that matter— but his best friend needed time to sort whatever _sentiment_ was going on inside his mind, and as much as the boffin dreaded to accept it, he should probably scrap the whole thing and give John the space he required to think his way through said complication. Which is exactly what he was going to do.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On the other hand...

John unlocks the door to the flat to find Sherlock waiting for him, clad in only a bed sheet that was hanging off one of his shoulders, exposing a pale collarbone to the room. John looks very confused, not at all following what is happening. Sherlock realised Irene was definitely right at saying he had to be more direct in order to get his point across, _“Well,”_ he thought _“she isn’t The Woman just for nothing.”_ and dropped the rest of the white sheet unto the floor, leaving him completely bare to the sitting room and sporting a self-satisfied smirk.

There is an odd mixture of expressions going over his flatmate’s face, but Sherlock can only catalogue “panic” before he hears a high-pitched voice coming through the other side of the hall approaching swiftly only to culminate in the reveal of Alex’s figure coming across the door. “John, this place is really nice, is Sherlock ho-” She says but stops as soon as her eyes fall on the very there, very _naked_ detective. 

Time seems to freeze for quite a bit, the three of them staring at the others with shock. Alex is the brave soul that breaks the ice muttering: “Hello, Sherlock.” She says while giggling amusedly. The detective’s gaze was quickly analysing the data, looking for clues and searching for tells of what was actually happening, all of this while still being completely and utterly without clothes. 

The red-haired girl looked with clear mirth between the two flatmates, probably thinking this was just another weird trait of his. John seemed to come out of his surprised trance and cleared his throat. Resigning himself to accept the situation without much questioning —as it was always the way with such a madman for a flatmate— he said. “I went back to the clinic and Alex was there,” He started, with a voice that made the detective’s insides shiver. He wanted that embarrassed tone to leave John’s speech right away. Alex just smiled delighted, not in the least bit fazed. Oh, how she annoyed Sherlock. “We got talking and I invited her here for dinner.” He finished explaining.

The situation suddenly became crystal clear for the most observant man in Britain. They were on a date. John and Alex were on a romantic date, there, in the flat. And he was standing in the middle of the sitting room, naked, looking like the biggest imbecile in the universe. “Oh,” Was all his mind could conjure up. Still trapped inside a vicious cycle of confusion. “I- I was unaware-” He started rambling while bending down to pick up the discarded bed sheet and proceeding to wrap it protectively around his shoulders. Bringing both ends of the soft cloth to meet as far as they could go around himself. More focused on trying to cover up his self-consciousness than his body. He felt humiliated.

John cut him off. Out of his nervous prattle. “We were planning on having take out,” Said kindly speaking to him, but his warm voice did nothing to alleviate the choking feeling inside Sherlock. “But if you want to throw some clothes on and join us-” He offered, but Sherlock knew he would not be able to take that without collapsing; no matter how much he did not want to leave John alone with that woman. The girl nodded understandingly from her place next to his friend.

“No,” He answered, “I have to -um- go,” He took some strides towards the door, making the other humans present step apart to allow him easy passage. 

“But Sherlock, you-” The blogger wanted to comment on the fact that he could not possibly leave the flat in just a sheet at almost midnight. But Sherlock did not care, he had to get out of there.

“I- the case!” He exclaimed. “The case, I’ll- do that -go and solve it.” He stumbled over his words long enough to flee down the stairs and out of sight. Once he reached the pavement outside of the building he took a few seconds to breathe, lest he ends up hyperventilating on the sidewalk.

He had miscalculated. Horribly. John was clearly not interested in him anymore, and was apparently very attracted to that boring girl instead. He had believed John would actually continue to pine after him indeterminably and had acted accordingly, wanting to show everyone —even the doctor himself— that Sherlock will always be the first and foremost thing in John’s mind. Why? the detective didn’t have a clue. But it hardly seemed relevant now that he knew how inaccurate the notion was. The hole he felt in his stomach was too confusing to focus on questioning anything else.

A black car parked just seconds later from his exit from the flat, which means his brother knows what had happened and was smugly facilitating him the invitation to - hide \- spend the night at his house. _“Well,”_ Sherlock thought. _“I guess it officially can’t get any worse.”_ And he climbed inside the vehicle.

He had miscalculated. Horribly. John was clearly not interested in him anymore, and was apparently very attracted to that boring girl instead. He had believed John would actually continue to pine after him indeterminably and had acted accordingly, wanting to show everyone -even the doctor himself- that Sherlock will always be the first and foremost thing in John’s mind. Why? the detective didn’t have a clue. But it hardly seemed relevant now that he knew how inaccurate the notion was. The hole he felt in his stomach was too confusing to focus on questioning anything else.

 A black car parked just seconds later from his exit from the flat, which means his brother knows what had happened and was smugly facilitating him the invitation to ~~hide~~ spend the night at his house. _“Well,”_ Sherlock thought. _“I guess it officially can’t get any worse.”_ And he climbed inside the vehicle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you believe will happen next?


	7. The Doctor Lies

 

 

** Chapter 7: The Doctor Lies  **

 

Sherlock was _not_ sulking. Simply because of the fact that Sherlock Holmes —Only Consulting Detective in the world— doesn’t sulk. If he was sprawled on the couch ungracefully with his back to the room, refusing to acknowledge the world around him; well, it was merely because the universe had decided to be so boring he couldn’t even be bothered. Not because of stupid John Watson and his relationship with stupid Alex.

John had attempted to speak with him a few times, and each of them Sherlock could hear a tinge of regret in his voice. His friend was obviously feeling guilty for the highly awkward moment they had two weeks ago. Still, Sherlock brushed him off repeatedly. He just did not see the point of talking about it. Specially not after he had to endure a complete night in _Mycroft’s_ house because of it; he preferred to dismiss the incident altogether. 

Mrs. Hudson entered the flat, bringing with her a tray of delicious-smelling scones and tea, which she proceeded to place on the coffee table. “Oh, Sherlock. Where’s John?” She asked, apparently not being able to see he was busy and he did not need her meddling to distract him.

“Out,” He answered and then finished with contempt. “With _Alex_.” Seriously, why was that still going on in any way? John usually burned through girlfriends quicker than light-speed, to what reason did he owed the prolonged exposure to that annoying human being other than simple-minded revenge?

“John does seem more cheerful lately.” His landlady commented, making herself at home and sitting on the doctor’s chair. Completely oblivious to what was really going on with the situation. Based on all the evidence he had gathered —and it had been a lot— he could accurately deduced that this whole thing with Alex was just a ruse. A trick from John to get back at him for turning him down. In more than one occasion, he had seen signs that John was lying while being with the red-haired woman.

“Mrs. Hudson. I regret to inform you-” He said, although he really didn’t, he was actually quite pleased with the conclusion. “That John is not an ounce happier today than he was two weeks ago, and other than being rather smug that he has managed to ‘put one over’ on me, that ‘relationship’ holds no true meaning, and definitely no direct relation to his general sense of contentment.” He said, as he stood up and snatched a biscuit from the plate. “So you might as well save your enthusiasm.” He finished as he sat down on his chair with a flourish and an arrogant look on his face.

“Why do you say that, dear?” She queried. Patting her lap with the palms of her hand. 

The detective sighed. “Because he’s clearly just using her to get back at me for rejecting him.” He answered. A smirk being painted on his face.

Mrs. Hudson frowned in confusion. Then looked at him intensively, her expression morphing from one of puzzlement to complete realisation. “Oh, Sherlock.” She said standing up, and then proceeded to pat his shoulder in an understanding manner. “I don’t think John’s doing that.” His landlady muttered quietly.

“Of course he is.” He insisted. “It is the only logical explanation.” His eyes were tracing her movements, trying to figure out why she could not seem to grasp the fact that it _had_ to be a big ruse.“John is not being completely truthful in his relationship with that woman, and is obviously deceiving her. However, he is not often prone to mislead someone for a night of intercourse, much less 14 days, twelve hours, and four minutes of a relationship; therefore he must have another reason to put up with her idiocy. The only logical and probable conclusion is he’s doing this to teach me a lesson.” He finished with a sigh. Pleased with his own ability to convey a great handful of data and evidence in less than a paragraph, he just hoped Mrs. Hudson could just see the quite obvious pattern in front of her eyes.

“John would not do such a thing,” She sounded very sure of the fact that he would have almost believed her, had he not known that John must be faking it. Nothing else made any real sense. “Maybe he is just compensating a bit?” She commented. A notion so moronic that the detective had to look harder at her face to really assure she was not jesting with him. Compensating. What could she possibly mean with that? John was nearing perfection on his worst days, what could he possibly have to compensate for? Sherlock pondered that for hours meanwhile Mrs. Hudson rattled on about her sister or something equally mind-numbing.

 

* * *

 

 

Marvellous. John was clearly not really —and honestly— invested in his predilection with Alex. That was quite thoroughly proven with the most crazy, completely out of conventional individual character traits, and evidently staged solely for Sherlock’s benefit scheme in what was probably a good majority of his life.

They were at a crime scene, where they spent most of their time when John had no work and Sherlock was out of his Mind Palace. The detective was examining the corpse, and asked for John’s professional opinion. Once none came, he turned around to find out what could possibly be more important or more interesting that this serial killer. 

John was laughing, but not with him. He was giggling with someone over the phone. Supposedly Alex. Giggling! seriously, what was next? Birthday cards? He continued doing that for approximately twelve point four more seconds —in which the younger man just stood and stared, waiting for him to be done— and then finally hung up. After that, they went back to the actual relevant things, like the crime scene. 

That would have left the consulting detective feeling highly annoyed for the rest of the day, if it weren’t for the fact that it unequivocally proved his hypothesis. This was not compensation as Mrs. Hudson liked to believe, it was complete and straightforward fraud, and he just needed to keep testing threads and stand back to watch as it all unravelled in front of him.

Mycroft had found out what he was attempting to do. Of course he had. The new cameras on their flat were impossible to find, even for Sherlock, but he knew his meddling brother well enough to know for certain that he had them installed instantly after he took down the last one.

His sibling had very clearly stated his disapproval with his antics at trying to stop John’s ruse. Saying incredibly boring things like: ‘This obsession of yours is not healthy’ or ‘You’ll regret this if you keep going down this path’ or ‘You cannot break into her medical record just to suit your fancies, Sherlock’.

However, it was all for naught, because there was not a thing in the world that would deter him from his mission. Sure, his first try did not go as planned, since Alex did not believe him when he said John looked at corpses and shot people for a living and he _enjoyed_ it. Nor did it proved successful when he faked concern and tried to tell her all about ‘Three Continents Watson’ and his string of past girlfriends. The positive side is that he was, in every sense of the word, a genius; and he specialised in uncovering people’s secrets all the time, so all he had to do is steal that little yellow notebook John always carried around, and show Alex how very pleased the doctor was of being part of the battlefield that was London. After that, she will never see his flatmate in anyromantic light ever again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. What do you think Alex will do then? Is John really lying or is Sherlock just jealous?


	8. The Window

 

** Chapter 8: The Window **

 

John himself, once told him that people used to say ‘When one door closes, a window opens.’ At the time, Sherlock had scoffed and called out on what a ridiculous and inaccurate notion that was: The motion of a door was in no way intrinsically related to that of a window. However, now he could see the figurative meaning of the phrase.Because John may have resigned himself out of the pursuit of a relationship with him completely, but that in no way meant that the boffin had to stand back and watch as he acted as if his association with Alex was any more real. As soon as the detective had concrete and physical evidence of John’s true character —the very best, according to him— she won’t be able to deny the non-existing affinity between them. Once they ended things, everything else will go back to exactly the way it was. 

His plan consisted of getting a hold of a certain yellow notebook and place it on a strategical place where Alex would find it. Stealing said notepad should be easy enough for a pick-pocket expert like him. 

The doctor had gone to work twenty minutes prior, so there was no danger of him getting back to the flat to retrieve a forgotten something while he was investigating. Sherlock climbed the stairs to John’s room, and proceeded to look for the item which will solve all of his recent conundrums. He opened all of the drawers, looked under the bed, searched next to his flatmate’s ‘secret’ porn stash, sought in the box that was labeled ‘Stay away, Sherlock’; and each one of those places proved to be fruitless. He even swept all of the flat for good measure, but still found nothing. 

Concluding that the soldier must have taken the notebook with him to work —which just proved his theory of John’s danger addiction— he got in a cab and approximated to John’s clinic. 

Once there, he was faced with another problem: In order to maintain the secrecy of his endeavour, he needed to avoid being spotted in the building at all costs. John may not be a genius, but he certainly would be smart enough to figure out who placed the book if he saw him there. He analysed the possibilities, and decided to go for the most straightforward course of action first. He tried the front entrance, but quickly decided there was very little chance that no one there would recognise him and alert John of his presence. He backtracked and went around the building. The back door was opened easily, and the stairs were deserted, nevertheless, this route also proved to be a tactical error, for it lead directly to the reception, Alex will actually be sitting just there, behind the desk, in complete sight —and ruin— of him.

He sighed and got back out again, starting to get frustrated with the universe’s inability to provide him with a suitable opportunity to break his best friend and his girlfriend up. He paced for a few seconds outside of what he knew was John’s consult room. There had to be a way to enter the building undetected. As he ran through the different scenarios, he came across one that may prove successful. The doctors’s second story room was not _ridiculously_ high, he calculated that with his height, he would be able to heave himself up if he placed one foot in the wall’s ledge.

Grinning at his newfound plan, he placed his limbs in the correct position and hauled his complete body up. He then proceeded to grip the edge of the window, and looked inside to see if John was there. Once he was sure he wasn’t, he climbed up the paneling and swung one of his legs past the pane. As he was about to get his other foot inside, he heard his friend on the other side of the door, turning the knob to enter. He quickly retreated, and whirled himself out of there. Not being able to drop because of the telling noise it would provoke, he was left dangling outside the building, hanging onto the window.

John came inside and sat on his desk, he briefed through some paperwork and continued his previous conversation with Alex, who was standing just outside the door. “We can go for lunch, once I’m finished.” John commented. “Maybe after, we could catch the game.” He sounded cheerful, and the detective couldn’t fathom why. He was —supposedly— not even in the room, why did John have to keep on pretending?

Sherlock clearly overestimated the length of time he could be left having to hold that position. He was dangling off the window, and his friend was still talking; after the other day’s humiliation, he wished his arms would be able to support his weight for as much as the soldier decided to —very inconveniently— remain in the room.

He was mildly thankful that his brain power was way beyond average when he got a brilliant idea that may as well be able to fix his dilemma. He bravely suspends one-handedly and, with a lot of manoeuvring, he reached his phone and called the reception, asking with a quiet and quite fake voice to speak with Doctor Watson. Hoping he would be capable of dragging his flatmate out of sight long enough to get out of the frankly uncomfortable situation. After that, John was gratefully called out of the consult room, and Sherlock was once again faced with two alternatives: He could walk away. Leave right now and let their relationship run its natural course. Stop interfering and surrender in his pursuit of ‘ _whatever_ ’. 

But, that was clearly not in his original constitution, so he opted for plan B. He climbed the rest of the way through the framework and started a frantic search for that discording casebook. He finally found it, after some seconds, inside one of his best friend’s drawers. Brilliant.

Footsteps sounded on the corridor, and Sherlock panicked. He was forced to make a quick retreat. The detective stashed the little yellow thing in his coat and hastily tucked himself inside one of the medication cabinets. He could barely fit, and he was certain something was spilling on his coat. The boffin was able to hear John walking around the room and possibly glancing outside the glass. The blogger closed the window, and only then did the genius recalled he had failed to return it to its original state once he was inside. _“Idiot!”_ He chided himself, frustrated at his own carelessness.

John started again with his patients, so the detective figured it would be best to get out before he died of utter boredom, thus he decided to call the reception again and see if he could pull off the same clever trick twice. However, he soon found he did not have that option, since he had dropped his phone on his haste to hide from an oncoming John Watson. The evening had just gone from bad to a night of possible catastrophic consequences. If his flatmate found out what he was doing, he would want no further association with him, and that was even worse than seeing him with insufferable Alex.

He needed to do something, except he couldn’t, for he had trapped himself in the worst possible location and now he was left with the only option left, the alternative he hated; And thus he will wait.

After some minutes he can recognise the voice of Alex through the slim cupboard doors, as she is ushering out another patient. She asks John something about some medicine or other, and Sherlock holds his breath as he listens to his friend getting closer to his storage. He can see the shadow in front of him through the tiny crack, but is immensely relieved when he notices the closet on his left being opened, searched and closed. His friend walks away after that and he feels like he can take in much needed oxygen again.

 

* * *

 

 

The detective stays in that cupboard longer than he would ever dare to admit, which is not overly long. Still, the amount of time passed inside that tiny cabinet is quite substantial for a mind like Sherlock’s and it starts to whirl around the true purpose of what he is attempting to do there, as it is often wont to do in quiet moments. He took the little yellow notebook out of his pocket and sighed, wondering since when did he become a person who _cares_ about this things. He needed- no, he _had_ to end it. Finish everything now. He waited for he next time John had his back to him, then took a big leap of faith, and compulsively reached out his hand to place the book on John’s desk quickly. Just hoping that small action will be able to have the ripples of a titan. Thatdubious relationship had to expire, and by whatever means possible he would ensure it.

The next time the redhead entered the room, she paused, and took the brilliant coloured thing in her two hands. “What is this?” She asked John, while Sherlock heard her flipping the pages.

“Where did you find that?” John answered, and Sherlock could hear the surprise and alarm in his voice. He wished he could properly witness the inevitable fight that was about to take place.

“Right here, on your desk.” Alex explains, though not really understanding anything at all. “Did you bring this to work with you?” Well, she may grasp a bit more of the situation than the detective has given her credit for. But she could never hope to fully comprehend Doctor John Watson. Not even the genius himself —although he may come the closest— could ever resolve that enigma, and he specialises in improbable things. He couldn’t wait to see how his friend would lie his way out of that one.

“Yes, I did.” He says truthfully, to the surprise of the detective. “A case might come up.”

“Case?” She sounds gobsmacked, almost verging on offended. “John, there are detailed descriptions of corpses here!” The red-haired raised her voice.

“I know. But it’s fine.” The blogger tries to explain, but gets abruptly interrupted by his girlfriend, who is not finding John’s new side all that charming. Another reason Sherlock thought she was a hopeless idiot. “It’s not fine, John!” She screamed, apparently yanking open the doctor’s drawers to peer inside., “Jesus! Is that a gun? Why do you carry this around?” Discombobulated and enraged she demanded. After that, there was a pause where something important seemed to happen, the next time she spoke, was in a dangerous and challenging whisper. “Do you...enjoy it?”

There is a deep silence and Alex just stormed out of the room angrily, John hurried to follow her and the room was left devoid of any other life form that is not Sherlock —and the sad cactus on the desk— so the boffin gets out of the cupboard grinning, pleased it was already done. 

However, soon after, voices could be heard returning to the consultation space, “I’ve seen a lot of horrible thing, and yes, sometimes the thrill is exciting, but I’m not that person.” The soft tenor carried through the space and entered the room, Sherlock has never heard a lie so big before. John did not only enjoy dangerous situations, he lived for them. He was helplessly addicted to them, nothing would ever change that. The detective ducked inside the cabinet again, before he was seen. “Alex, you make me want to stop being that person.” John said quietly and Sherlock couldn’t comprehend the reason behind it. The ruse was too elaborate to include this, for the first time he started to wonder whether he was incorrect in his first deduction.

“I’m sorry, John.” The woman uttered sadly. Sherlock could see a bit through the angle of the slightly open doors, her expression was disbelieving. “But I just can’t be with someone who has a gun tucked in his jeans when he comes to work.”

“I understand.” John answered, then proceeded to do something that will forever haunt the detective’s nightmares. He takes the gun and offers it to Alex, surrendering it. “Take it.” He said. “Take it with you and hide it. Once you believe that I’m not that person from now on, I’ll dispose of it properly.” Something inside Sherlock broke, John just couldn’t walk away from their lifestyle that way. He was invaluable for the work, and cases were never the same when he was not there. He could not possibly be giving everything —giving _him_ — up for a fake relationship. It was not logical. One of his axioms was clearly and horribly wrong. Confirmation of this came when the doctor whispered the words _‘this is what I choose_ ’ to Alex. That was the moment Sherlock realised John was not in denial; he was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back.
> 
> Do you think Sherlock made the right choice? Who else saw John choosing life without crime coming? What do you think Sherlock will do next?
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has kudo-ed, bookmarked or reviewed this story so far, and I hope you will keep on doing that.
> 
> PS: Yes, the last chapter title "The Doctor Lies" is a Doctor Who reference.


	9. Definitely Not Involved

 

** Chapter 9: Definitely Not Involved **

 

Sherlock was eventually able to go back to the flat, once the others had left to grab some lunch. He needed to revise his data to know where it had all gone wrong. The situation had rapidly spun out of control and he needed to determine which factor was the one that would take his best friend away from him.

Things were tense between them, even if John had no idea what had happened at the surgery. Sherlock avoided him for a few days. The faint traces of humiliation he had yet to delete from following The Woman’s advice and the confusion he held since that day at the clinic and the business with the gun, made him reluctant to spend time with the doctor. He was certain that his flatmate was completely ignorant as to what was happening, he probably didn’t even realise something _was_ happening. But the detective couldn’t look past it, he felt oddly betrayed, even if John had yet to make good on his promise to give up his dangerous life.

The situation was shredding the last piece of sanity he possessed. He found himself doing things he had never done before, and it baffled him how these treacherous thoughts could take up his entire brain. He had misplaced his keys, fumbled over his words more than a couple of times, and what was worse, was that people around him were starting to notice it now. Even Sally looked a bit concerned when he failed to concentrate the day he went in to give his statement about the robbery of a _lawyer-and-a-kindergarden-teacher_ married couple’s house three days prior. Sherlock didn’t feel like himself anymore.

Things went on in a similar manner until one work-day morning Sherlock lost track of time with an experiment, and found himself ‘ambushed’ by a barely awake John. The soldier said ‘good morning’ amicably, and the detective couldn’t help the shiver he got whenever his friend smiled at him in that way. Still, he felt furious for what had transpired, furious with himself, with the world, but specially with the objet of his frankly confusing emotions for dragging him into this wretched situation in the first place. John sat down and munched a piece of toast obliviously, and for a moment they both stayed silent. When the detective was about to open his mouth and end the frustrating quiet, Lestrade bounded up the stairs, followed by Mrs. Hudson. The brunet was actually relieved to have a distraction, otherwise he knew he would give himself away and he did not wish that to happen in any case. 

“Triple murder, boys.” Lestrade said to the both of them, clearly baffled at theinteresting case. “Three bodies confirmed killed at the same time in three different parts of the city. Put on some clothes and let’s go.” He must really require assistance if he was forgoing the asking part and jumping straight into the ‘Go’ bit of the matter. Sherlock actually preferred it way more in such way.

“Finally!” He exclaimed, already stepping into his room to change. “John, what will you call this one?” He asked once he got out, literally 11.3 seconds later.

“I’m not going.” John replied, and at least the other two occupants of the room had the sense of looking shocked as well. The blogger had never turned down a case so easily before. And the detective knew he never would have even considered it, were it not for Alex.

“What?” Geoff questioned, not at all expecting the turn of events that were transpiring. Which was alright, since the detective had known in advance this could happen, and was still aghast in the face of it.

“Now that I’m dating Alex I think I’m going to lay low on the cases a bit, might even close down the blog for a while.” The blonde replied and kept on eating his toast with only just a shrug for reaction. Did he not know how monumental —and horrible— what he said was? 

The DI shared a glance with Mrs. H. while John got up, nodded at the three of them and went up to his room. Lestrade then proceeded to shake his head and continue. “Okay, let’s go Sherlock.” He said.

“But-” Sherlock tried to replicate but was quickly interrupted by Lestrade repeating: _‘Let’s go’_ quite forcefully.

“John has lost his mind!” Sherlock replied, still not able to believe his friend would dare to do such thing. “Give up cases for a dull woman! That needs to stop right now.” He decided, and he would do practically anything to make his flatmate see reason.

“Oh, Sherlock. You still think it’s not real?” Mrs. Hudson, who had been suspiciously silent up until then, said. Placing an understanding hand over his shoulder. The musician refused to admit knowing the reason why.

“Possibly not.” He conceded. “But it still has to stop. John is addicted to danger, this abstinence will have him frustrated with boredom within the week.” Sherlock explained, while he angrily put on his scarf. The landlady looked on from the other side of the flat now.

“You stay out of this, Sherlock.” The DI warned, with a tone of voiced that noted there would be consequences if dismissed. However, it didn’t work nearly as well as John’s. “Something good is happening to John, he doesn’t need you to scare her away like you have done with all his past relationships.” 

While that may be true, Sherlock would never let his best friend decide such an abysmal choice. “This is ridiculous.” He declared to his two followers as they bounded down the stairs. “This is obviously a sign that this sentiment is completely clouding his judgement and we must make him see the idiotic mistake he’s making.”

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson seemed to stop abruptly at this. Turning towards each other with concerned eyes and silently deciding something. The detective secretly wished it was to agree in helping him convince John that Alex was bad for him. With an exasperated sigh, the silver-haired man just muttered. “Let’s go.” And both went out the door, into the London streets.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was ushered into the great, opulent office of the last man he wanted to see that day. His mood was already sour enough.

“Why did you call me here, Mycroft?” He said while angrily stepping into the room, stomping all the way. “I have an important experiment running that’s time-sensitive.” 

The other did not even look up from his papers, just gestured him to a nearby chair. “Sit down, brother mine.” He said. “We need to talk.”

The detective flopped down on an expensive armchair and then rested his feet on his brother’s desk, just to spite him. “What is it?” He asked with an air of petulance he seemed to have already mastered long ago.

However, Mycroft did not seem in the least impressed. Must be quite serious then. “Your... friends,” He made that disgusted expression at the word that he has made since Sherlock remembered. “Have brought to my attention a problem which they believe has gotten completely out of control, and I’ve told them I would handle it.”

Sherlock immediately recognised what he was talking about, and while he was quite pleased everyone appeared to agree with him on the matter of his friend’s sudden bout of insanity, he was highly annoyed that they had dragged his brother —of all people— into it. “Keep your overly large nose out of it, Mycroft.” He spat. “I’ll talk to John myself.”

Mycroft’s head snapped up quickly. Running an assessing gaze through the detective’s face. “And what will you say?” He asked carefully. Sherlock had yet to determine why.

“That he is allowing emotions and sentiment to overcome his rational thinking.” He explained, waving his hands about. “That it could have destructive consequences and he should have never become _involved_.” Sherlock argued. Already upset and frustrated just talking about it.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that.” Mycroft replied. “This should be easy then.” He stacked a pile of papers away and looked around his pockets for something.

“This?” Sherlock asked confused. Not following the line his brother had traced to arrive at that sort of conclusion.

“Because this talk is not for John, Sherlock.” He said while handing him a lone cigarette. Normal tar level, no less.“It’s for you.”

Oh.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been a long day and honestly, all Molly really wanted to do was go home, curl on the couch and have a nice warm cup of tea. Instead she found herself finishing up with an autopsy that had taken her way longer than she expected. It was the third today and she was not even sure if ‘today’ was still ‘ _today_ ’. So when the last body was rolled into its —his?— place, she could not have been more relieved. Just as she was archiving the last of the paperwork, she heard the door open behind her, and she sighed. A visit to the morgue at almost 3 in the morning could only mean one thing. It did not matter to her how much she loved him —lately more like a friend than, whatever it was before— she was definitely going to kick him out this time. She just wanted to sleep.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry but-” She started saying but got stopped in her tracks by the actual figure that was in front of her. “John!” The pathologist asked surprised. “What are you doing here so late?” Molly was admittedly glad to see him, despite the unfortunate circumstances. She has not seen his friend much since he stopped accompanying the detective on cases.

“Hello, Molly.” John said with an apologetical smile. “I’m sorry to drop by this late.” He finished as he sat down on one of the stools. 

“No problem, John.” She answered, although they both knew it was not entirely true. “What can I do for you?” She inquired after seeing how fidgety her friend was. She supposed she must be picking up some things from her other genius of a friend.

“There’s something I’m going to do and I’ve been dying to tell someone, and I obviously cannot tell Sherlock after everything, and I needed a friend who can keep a secret, and I don’t think Greg would-” The doctor started rambling, until Molly halted him with a _‘John!’_. 

“Oh, right. Sorry.” He said, laughing anxiously and scratching his neck in nervousness. The girl gave him an encouraging look and he fumbled a bit, trying to get something out of his pocket. “Here.” What he presented to her was not at all what she had anticipated.

A box. A velvet small box. You did not need to be a consulting detective to figure out what that meant. “Oh, my God!” She exclaimed. Shocked and amazed at the information that was handed to her. “John?” She asked, seeing as her friend was shifting on his seat.

“I’m-” The doctor started but his voice did a funny thing. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m going to ask Alex to marry me.” He declared, much more confident than the first time.

“Jesus, John.” Molly asked. “Are you sure?” She inquired. She never thought this type of information was going to be said to her, she dreaded to think what that would mean to everyone involved. Or ‘ _not involved_ ’ as the detective often said he was definitely not.

“Please, Molly” John pleaded. “I need to say something without interruptions.” He requested and his friend just sat down on the stool beside him and gestured him to go on.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He started, with a voice filled with determination. “I know that maybe all of you think I’m crazy, or that she is not right for me, or that I’m moving way too fast.” Molly actually thought all of the above, but wasn’t going to say that to him. He was opening up to her about something big, and she needed to allow him to do it. “I appreciate your concern, but you are all wrong.” He declared. Sitting even straighter on his place. “I have dated a lot since I came back from Afghanistan, but it always made me feel sort of empty, you know?” At this, the pathologist nodded in understanding. Who couldn’t relate to a feeling like that?

“But with her, for the first time in my life I feel settled, and actually very happy. I want to keep on feeling this way.” He sighed, a content look in his eyes that told Molly that even if she did not know Alex personally, she must be very important to John. “So tomorrow night, on the roof of this very building, I’m going to replace a bad memory with a perfect one and ask her to marry me.” Molly could understand why her friend would want to erase that horrible day completely, but she could not help but being a bit partial in this. That roof was probably going to kill Sherlock for the second time.

Once she saw it was okay to speak, she exhaled. “Wow, John.” Replied the pathologist. “I had no idea.”

“It’s fine. I just need to ask you to do two things for me.” He requested and she conceded. “One: For you not to try to convince not to do it. I’m sure. More sure than I’ve ever been.” Molly nodded, knowing that there was nothing much she could do anyway. “And two: You can’t tell anybody. I’m sure that by now you are all aware of everything that happened —or didn’t happen— between me and Sherlock. And I don’t want anyone to know from anywhere but my own mouth.” He explained. “Agreed?” 

Molly was at an impasse, she did not think she could keep that secret, specially from Sherlock, but John was giving her no choice. She nodded and her friend seemed to deflate from the defiance he portrayed earlier, as if he were relieved because of it. “Al right.” He said.

They both stayed in awkward silence a few moments, until Molly really registered the reality of the situation. “God, John!” She said.

“I know.” He laughed, once again a bit nervous. “Well, I’ll let you get going. It’s already late as it is.” The blonde said as he stood up from the stool and stuffed the box inside his pocket.

“Yes, John.” She replied, also gathering her things to go out. “See you later.”

“Same.” He replied walking through the door, only to come back and say. “Thank you for your help, Molly. You don’t know how much it means to me.” He said, and then he was gone. Molly had no idea what would happen once all of this boiled over, because it would. Suddenly that nice and warm cup of tea felt more necessary than before.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, who saw that coming? And what do you think will happen now that Molly knows? Is there still hope for Sherlock and John?
> 
> Let me know what you think, and I would like to read about your hypothesis of how this could get fixed. If you think you know the answer, DM me.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	10. The Leap

** Chapter 10: The Leap **

 

Almost a day after John’s big reveal, the pathologist had decided to avoid Sherlock altogether, thus escaping any deductions that would surely result in her spilling the metaphorical beans. Molly had promised not to tell a soul about John’s engagement proposal, but she was finding it incredibly difficult to refrain from just picking up the phone and calling Sherlock to tell him everything. And probably break his heart in the process. That’s when she wondered whether it was worth it. Would the detective even want to know it? Should she break one of her best friend’s trust for —what exactly? 

She really did not know what she should do. The situation had been running through her thoughts ever since John decided to thrust the unwanted secret on her. After hours of pondering the morality of her predicament she concluded she wouldn’t tell the detective. It doesn’t matter what he would admit: it would only hurt him; also definitely damage the friendship between the three of them irreparably, the friendship she had tried so hard to build after lying about the death of his best friend to one, and finally getting over her crush on the other. She had made a decision, but still she was really unprepared when she saw Sherlock himself stride inside the lab at Bart’s, muttering something about his _‘stupid brother’_ and _‘his stupid dubious case’_. Talking to himself until he fully entered.

“Hello, Molly.” He said, taking a few steps to where she was standing, unwinding his scarf and setting to work. However, something on her face must have shown her hesitancy, since the detective stopped completely and watched her carefully. After a moment, with confusion on his face, he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Uhm...” Molly was at a loss, she did not know what she could possibly say in order to derail the detective away from the truth.

“Molly?” The man rose from his seat slowly, and asked her in suspicion.

“I just-” She attempted to answer, but managed to drop everything in her hands in the process. Nervousness was definitely not helping her case, but she was helpless under her friend’s calculating gaze. The pathologist knew he would gather any tidbit of information if she did not act soon.

“Molly?” He repeated, but this time in anxiousness. Sherlock probably noticed his friend’s unresponsiveness didn’t come from embarrassment, but from sympathy. She couldn’t take a second longer of that lost expression he was portraying, looking like he expected terrible news that would tear the world he knew apart. She supposed he wouldn’t be wrong. 

She was unable to keep hiding it from him. Not even knowing how distressing it would be to hear it. In a fit of impulsiveness, she blurted: “John is getting engaged!” To the surprise of both of them. After taking a deep breath, she explained. Figuring she needed to, now that she had already let the cat out of the bag. “John is getting engaged to Alex.” The baffled face of the world’s only consulting detective was too much for Molly to take, so she averted her gaze before continuing. “He asked me to keep it a secret, but I thought you deserved to know. In case you wanted to do something about it.” She fidgeted with her files and waited, but Sherlock seemed in some sort of shocked trance. “Sherlock?” She questioned, starting to get a bit worried. When no answer was forthcoming she tried again. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock blinked, and timidly asked. “So... John is...” Molly officially felt like the worst person on the planet for causing her friend that much misery as she saw him stutter and struggle for words.

“What do you want to do?” She inquired, hoping to bring action back into the situation; maybe a plan would stir her friend into breathing again. 

It appeared to have worked. However, the girl was not exactly sure she preferred the challenging eyes she got from the boffin once it did. “Do?” He asked. “Molly, I appreciate what you are attempting, but I am _not_ going after John.” The fire in his voice would pass as nothing but disdain to the casual listener, but to Molly was a hoarse sound asking for help. “I decided I am done being irrational about the whole of it. I mean, why would anyone want to thrust themselves back into that bottomless pit?” 

_‘And that’s the heart of it, isn’t it?’_ Thought the girl. She knew how the genius often wrapped himself in ice and aloofness whenever he found the emotions at hand too demanding. And by the looks of it, he had at least already stopped denying the feelings to himself, although he will probably not acknowledge them, or even admit them, altogether. “Because you love him.” She stated, and then worried about Sherlock getting whiplash from how swiftly he turned to look at her.

“No, I don’t.” He denied adamantly.

Molly sighed and snatched away the pen Sherlock was clicking in anguish. “So, you don’t care that John Watson is going to propose to someone at the top of this building?” Demanded the smaller girl. “Someone who’s not you?”

Sherlock was about to disagree when he seemed to halt himself to ask. “Wait, here? Why here?” He said, and the way his hand was clutching the blue cashmere scarf told Molly all she needed to know about the detective’s feelings.

“He says he wants to replace a bad memory with a good one.” She said quickly. With an air of efficiency that recalled the swift motion of pulling out a bandaid. It was supposed to hurt less, but the wounded expression she got in return spoke volumes of her tactic’s inefficiency. 

“Good to know I’m not the only thing he will be replacing.” The other muttered under his breath, and Molly was sure she could hear glass breaking into tiny pieces somewhere in the distance for the way those words were expelled. “Sherlock...” She tried, but could not get past that. What could she possibly say to fix the circumstances?

“No, no.” The detective held up a hand to stop her awkward attempt at comforting him. “Maybe that... _hurts_ , a bit.” He admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m in love with him.”

“But you are!” She screamed, losing all her patience. “And don’t you dare deny it. You once told me that I saw you. Really _saw_ you. And this is the only certain thing I’ve seen since the first time you brought him along.” She insisted. 

The detective fiddled with the beakers in front of him, not even able to face her after such revelation. “I hope it goes well for him.” He declares, as she saw moisture gather in his eyes. “I really do.” Molly wanted to do something, but as soon as she took a step closer, her friend whirled around and confronted her with his barriers up once more. “Can we-” He paused to clear his throat, the only clue of his earlier display of weakness present, and continued. “So, the case?”

“No, you-” Molly tired, but got frantically interrupted before she could say more. “Please?” He asked and she had never been good at denying him something.

“Alright.”

 

* * *

 

 

While working, Molly often took tiny breaks to look at her friend, and watch as he was persistently trying to keep the pieces of himself together in public; probably holding off until he was alone to really despair about what had been said to him. She needed to do something to ensure that did not happen.

After a few minutes of dead ends, they both agreed Sherlock would not find an answer to the case there, so they took the lift together. Once inside, the smaller girl waited a few seconds and then pushed the emergency button to halt their descent. Then, she pressed the option to the roof and blocked the way so Sherlock couldn’t get to the controls.

“Molly, what are you-” He said, but once he felt the lift go up he quickly understood. “Step aside.” He demanded, trying to push the buttons behind her. His friend stubbornly stayed rooted to the spot. She knew he would not use force to move her.

“No.” She replied as the elevator was coming to a halt on the final floor. “I’m not moving until you get out of these doors.” The pathologist stared at him defiantly, trying to encourage him to just do what he wanted to do. “Go get him.” She said, and the pained expression the other gave her was starting to get frustrating.

“I told you I’m done chasing after him.” He argues and completely looks over the fact that he just admitted —aloud no less— that’s what he had been trying to do. “Just move, for God’s sake!”

“Sherlock, do you want to spend your entire life watching John married to somebody else, wondering what would have happened if you had just taken that chance,” She asked. “Or do you want to try? To actually do something?”

“Why do you keep insisting over this?” He inquired. His left hand started absent-mindedly scratching his forearm, and that fact was all the motivation Molly needed to not crumble in her resolve. She needed to make him at least try.

“Because you love him.” She explained. “You love him and you are scared, and you’ll loose him if you don’t decide right now.” Molly stated, while the detective looked at her with so much emotion on his face.

“What do you want me to do, Molly?” Sherlock asked truthfully. “He made his position on the matter quite clear.” She sighed. _‘he thinks he would be playing a game his is destined to loose’_ Molly thought. _‘He’s so wrong.’_ “You want me to get out there, knock the ring off his hand and say _‘Sorry to interrupt but I’m the only you should marry’_?” He asked with a hint of irony in his voice. Not at all believing it would lead to anything good.

Molly thought she was actually making a bit of progress, if she kept trying maybe he would concede. “Is that what you think?” She goaded him, knowing fully well that the detective was aware of everything she was doing and was letting her get away with it. Telling him about this has been a good decision, she thinks. Sherlock clearly just needed someone to give him a little push.

“Obviously not.” He replied. “He’s everything! and this,” Sherlock waves his hand at himself and the situation he’s in. “It’s not enough, and I’m tired of making a fool of myself.”

The girl took a deep breathe and prepared herself for more honesty than she was probably allowed, but if she was going to convince this man to follow his heart she needed a blunt instrument. “I know you may not be used to feeling like an idiot, Sherlock; But I am, and let me tell you it’s not as bad as you believe.” She said with an air of finality. “Ever since the day we met, I made such an idiot of myself flirting with you. And I did so many times over for a few years. But it was worth it, because it made us become friends. It led to me helping you when you really needed it, and now I’m going to help you again by saying this: If you truly meant it that night when you thought you were going to die, and I do count. If you really trust and value my opinion in any way. Then, Sherlock, for the love of God, get the hell out of this lift!” 

Sherlock was really not expecting that. Much less from his normally shy friend, but at the end of the day he should’ve seen it coming, she could be truly straightforward when she needed.“But, Molly...” He made a final attempt, knowing he had lost the battle.

“Just jump.”She said, and after a moment of hesitation, he nodded as a silent thanks and stepped out. Not really knowing what he would find there. About to make an even more difficult leap than the one he made off that very same rooftop years ago.

Molly watched him, and just let him go -in more ways than one. And she couldn’t have been more glad about it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you believe will happen once in that rooftop?


	11. The Final Page Part 1

 

** Chapter 11: The Final Page Part 1 **

 

Sherlock walked through the lift’s doors and into the cold air of the winter. He wrapped his long coat tighter around himself and felt a pang of pain when he saw what John had done for Alex; the evidence of how much she really meant to him. The blogger had managed to hang fairy light across the whole space, they were twinkling in the midnight moonlight, almost in mock. Sherlock could count approximately thirty five candles strewn all over the floor, which was also covered in red rose petals. It was so stereotypically romantic that Sherlock wanted to just bolt, go home and forget the whole thing. Even if he knew that would never prove possible.

This made Sherlock wonder what was he even doing? He clearly had no place there. For the first time in his life he could easily recognise he was intruding in something that had nothing to do with him whatsoever. 

For lack of anything else to do with his already invested self, he kept walking. In the centre of it all, he found something he had failed to see before. Something he never thought he would ever see again: John’s yellow casebook. Last time he had known about it, Alex was in possession of it. Was he too late? Had they already been there? Had she already accepted and they both went away to celebrate? ‘Impossible’ he thought, the soldier _and_ doctor would never leave open flames unattended. Then what could the little notebook of alarming shade of yellow mean? He crouched an picked the object up, he cradled it in his hands for a moment. running his fingertips over its smooth surface and wondered what could ever be that important about it to be granted a place of honour on what could probably be John’s most cherished memory? 

It told a lot about his state of mind, and how much the situation had gotten the best of him, the way that instead of feeling curious or interested in the mystery, he only felt dread creeping up his limbs. Because Molly was wrong: no matter how much he yearned to do something, it would in no way change the outcome. John will still marry that woman, and he would end up right back where he started, so what could possibly be the use? 

His annoying brother had warned him this would happen, and he had refused to listen; with likely catastrophic results. Now here he was, clutching a stupid little notebook as if it were a lifeline and completely rooted to the spot. Paralysed in the face of such a distressing evening, the culmination of confusing and disappointing weeks. Glancing down at the item in his hand, he made a decision. He may as well see what made Alex so special as to allow her to destroy the world as he knew it. He figured that after everything else having already left his life in a pile of debris, the last of his hope would barely be a waste if he tossed it to the tide too. So, with the same resignation of a convict walking to the executioner’s chair, he sighed, opened the notebook and started reading; however, what he found there was very different from what he expected.

 

 

 

> “The Confused Detective
> 
>  
> 
> For a few weeks now I’ve been having sort of a problem. Maybe a bit more like a riddle than an actual problem, but I didn’t even know exactly what was happening. I just knew that I was unsatisfied with the way my life was going. It wasn’t as if I was unhappy in any way, but I just felt like something really important was missing to make it all just perfect, and that I had to do something to find it. If there is something that you have to know about me is that even if my flatmate/best friend always calls me an idiot, I am not one. I may not be the genius he is, but I know a thing or two about matters of the heart, and I also know when someone is wrongly refusing to acknowledge they could ever be suited for a real relationship. 
> 
>  
> 
> I have dated quite a few people in my lifetime, if I’m being honest. I even went as far as getting the unwanted nickname of ‘Three Continents Watson’ from my mates; however, no conquest has ever been as important to me as this one is. No _person_ has ever mattered to me as much as they do, and I have to thank a very close friend of mine (Mike, you are a saint. Again.) for listening to me rambling and despairing about it over a few pints, and then proceeding to smack some sense into me. I have come to realise, that no matter how many criminals we chase and how fun and fulfilling that is; this pursuit is probably the most important thing that I will do in my life.
> 
>  
> 
> Because this, _this_ is the big one. It is going to take all that I’ve got. All my time, my attention, my resources. This is the most dangerous thing that I’ve ever done, and well, I hope the universe is kind enough to let it work. 
> 
>  
> 
> Today, I’m not telling you the details about an interesting case, my virtual blog-readers. This time, I’m bringing you something different: how to get yourself your own Consulting Detective. (If this actually works I may have snatched myself the only one.)
> 
>  
> 
> Step one: Admit to yourself that you have strong feelings for this man. 
> 
> It may come as a shock to you at first, but just make sure to listen to what your gut is telling you. Work through the inevitable Sexual Crisis before proceeding to step number two.
> 
>  
> 
> Step two: Choose the completely wrong moment to make a somehow inebriated/drugged move after a case... and get shot down on purpose.
> 
> You’ll need to make sure he does not, under any circumstances, realises that you may be more sober than you appear. Stealing a blue glittery hat might help.
> 
>  
> 
> Step three: Agree that he is right and that you two don’t work. Locking the door on any future you could have together. 
> 
> Letting him down may be hard, but it will be worth it in the end. You’ll hopefully be taking away what he wants, even if he doesn’t realise he even wants it, which will drive Sherlock bonkers.
> 
>  
> 
> Step four: Sherlock goes bonkers. (Even more so)
> 
> Try your best to fend off any attempts he makes, just make sure not to be rude, or to discourage him much. Warning: The things he could attempt may include but not be restricted to: Lying, showing off, jealousy schemes, explosions, fake injuries, real injuries, repeated results and dubiously offered (drugged) tea.
> 
>  
> 
> Step five: Find the girl who annoys Sherlock most in the world (even more than Anderson) and ask for her help.
> 
> Turn on the Watson Charm, explain everything to Alex and hope she agrees to help out.
> 
>  
> 
> Step six: Pretend to be dating Alex, and promise Mycroft the legwork in as many cases as he likes in exchange for his assistance.
> 
> Try not to die from shock/desire if the detective attempts any or all advices given to him from The Woman. Note: Ignore the fact that he lied to you about her being dead.
> 
>  
> 
> Step seven: Wait until Sherlock surely breaks into your clinic desk to steal the casebook and show it to Alex.
> 
> Assure that you don’t actually ‘catch’ him doing it, with the help of Mycroft’s cameras.
> 
>  
> 
> Step eight: After Alex ‘finds’ the notebook have a big fight.
> 
> Give Alex a list of things she can say to make it seem like she cannot continue to go out with someone like that. Make sure to take your gun with you to work, you’ll use it for next steps.
> 
>  
> 
> Step nine: Prove your loyalty to her by promising to give up cases and hand her the gun.
> 
> Missing out on the adventures for a while may be a shame, but keep in mind your goal: The biggest adventure. Note: Remember to retrieve the gun from Alex, you’ll definitely need it.
> 
>  
> 
> Step ten: Because your friends have no boundaries (Specially Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson) they’ll inevitably meddle and intervene to stop Sherlock.
> 
> Ask Mycroft to alert you of this fact and don’t forget to order Sherlock’s favourite biscuits and have a warm tea ready for when he comes home when that happens. 
> 
>  
> 
> Step eleven: Tell only Molly about your plans to propose to Alex.
> 
> Make her promise not to tell anybody, and on no account let her see inside the ring box. 
> 
>  
> 
> Step twelve: Wait and see if Molly tells Sherlock.
> 
> A big gamble, and even if getting a negative result wouldn’t mean you would stop your mission, it would be nice to know if your friend has given you her blessing and she has gotten over her former crush. Note: Thank Molly later.
> 
>  
> 
> Step thirteen: Sherlock arrives at the top of that fateful rooftop, and finds your casebook.
> 
> A very important step, where you’ll be able to tell if he is as ready as you think he is to take a chance.
> 
>  
> 
> Step fourteen: Sherlock uncovers the mystery.
> 
> With this line, make him realise he’s standing directly underneath the (poisonous) mistletoe.”

 

As soon as he finished reading, Sherlock noticed his hands were trembling. He felt a suspicious moisture gather in his eyes as they danced wildly over his surroundings, trying to make sense of the situation; until he saw the figure of his best friend come out of hiding and into the tiny illuminations of the fairy lights of the roof. Then, his gaze could not look somewhere else.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many of you saw that coming? What do you think will happen next? Come back on wednesday to find out.


	12. The Final Page Part 2

 

** Chapter 12: The Final Page Part 2 **

 

Sherlock was paralysed in place. A million thoughts swirling and changing inside his head, trying to make sense out of a seemingly impossible situation. Because there was no way that what was in that notebook was real. It was an effect he could have never seen coming, and he often prided himself of his abilities to predict every outcome that any given circumstance could cause. However, his best friend was standing there, with the blue suit he had always secretly thought was the perfect hue for him, and he had not a single idea how the road had lead them there. 

As improbable as it appeared, the truth was that the past months of his life had basically been a complete lie. An elaborate ruse from John for a still unknown purpose. His first assessment of the situation had been utterly right, but nobody had listened to him, up into the point that he had ceased to trust it himself. John was never a cruel person. He could be blunt, honest to the point of rudeness, a bit volatile even; but never deliberately cruel. That he would do something like this just to get back at him was a fact that he had difficulty to believe.

“John,” He started saying, having no clue of how to end the sentence. He cleared his throat as his gaze searched for some tell on his friend’s face. Anything that could make him believe not everything was ruined. But John just stood there with a half-smile that he was unable to place as either happy or smug. Still, it brought out something nasty in him, all that pent up emotion bubbling its way to the surface in the ugliest of ways. “Even me,” He uttered, and with each word he gained back his voice. Ignoring the onslaught of feelings and choosing instead to focus on outrage. “Even someone as certifiably insane as I am knows that this is too far.” The blogger watched him with curiosity in his eyes and his hands inside his pockets. He had an untraceable expression, that if he didn’t know better would say he was expecting something. 

“You lied to me.” The detective demanded. “Manipulated me for weeks. What is this, then?” He asked, puzzled about his friend’s motivations. “Is this some sort of revenge for faking my death? Or did you just thought it would be funny? _‘let’s see if we can make the machine lose his mind over this.’_ ” The sneer in his voice was relentless and completely vicious, while his friend just stayed there, immobile, taking the abuse without ever losing his composure. “You made me doubt myself, did you really think I would kiss you after that?” His breath was coming in short gasps, quite sure if he kept ranting that way he would hyperventilate. “I understand that I have done some dubious things over the years, but never without necessity and _never_ without danger for someone’s life.” Sherlock knew his false suicide had been quite hard on John, but that had been to protect him and others. This, was a low blow. 

“This is why sentiment is nothing but a defect designated only to make people act like fools.” His fists were clenched so tightly his fingers were hurting, and the blinking lights were making his head dizzy. His mind was clearly not able to handle realising the love he had for his flatmate just for it to be snatched away in the most merciless of ways. “So, I was right in my previous assessment: all emotions are nothing but useless and inconvenient aspects of which I wish not to be a part. So thank you, for proving me right once again.” Sherlock breathed the last words deflating, all rage swimming away from his body and leaving behind only hollowness. 

He was hoping to get a reaction to that, for his friend to do something other than stand there and look at him _that_ way. A way that threatened to undo every defiance he could have against him. When no explanation seemed to be forthcoming, he sighed. “Why would you do this?” He asked brokenly, his voice barely above an almost quiet whisper. All fight ended and just a tiny hope of a reasonable motive to be thrusted upon his ears were the only factors that were still keeping him on that roof. 

“You did not finish reading.” John spoke for the first time since he set a foot on that trap. His tone carefully even, not giving anything away. Other than the fact that he did not seem particularly guilty or worried over his friend’s rant; which indicated he was confident the detective would not stay angry for very long.

“What?” Said detective queried dumbly, and then proceeded to jostle himself out of the stupor. He couldn’t wait for all this to be over so his brain could function at its normal capacity again —which was way above everyone else’s.

“Turn it over.” The soldier explained, one hand still in his coat, with the first hint of a real smile on his face. Almost encouraging him to calm down and gather all the data first. Which was uncommonly reversed from what usually happened. That, above everything else, validated how out of his depth the genius was when it came to feelings.

Sherlock confusedly opened the little yellow notebook and flipped through the pages he had already read. Anticipation pooling inside his chest. His fingers clumsy in their haste to reveal what he hoped was a way to save the best friendship he will ever have. Once he arrived to the fourteenth step he found nothing below, so he took the sheet between his digits and flipped it over unto the last page. There, in the same scratchy but carefully written handwriting, was another step, which read simply:

 

 

> “Step fifteen: Hope he says yes.”

 

Sherlock could not wrap his head around what that could possibly mean. _‘Say yes?’_ He thought. _‘Say yes to what?’_ He scanned the otherwise empty page for more clues, and started asking, “John, what-” but stopped once he lifted his head to look at him.

John was before him, down on one knee, with a ring resting inside an open black velvet box, smiling brightly and hopefully. The detective was struck dumb for the third time that evening. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” The blogger started, biting his bottom lip. “Will you marry me?”

All air seemed to rush out of Sherlock’s lungs, and his eyes started leaking the previously unshed tears. His limbs were shaking as if freezing and John’s worried gaze sent him deeper into panic. Noticing this, his friend closed the box and stashed it back in his jacket, rushing forward to wrap his arms around his distressed detective, the other held on for dear life with the fire of confusion halting his brilliant mind into a long stop. 

After a few moments, the doctor guided both of them out of there and into a cab ride home. Once Sherlock was finally a bit calmer and out of his paralysing anxiety, he attempted to speak, to explain, to answer; but John just moved his hand in comforting circles over his shoulders and shushed him. “Sleep,” He said. “All will be normal in the morning.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. Don't you love the fact that I'm on holidays now and can update this regularly?
> 
> What do you think? Will these two ever get it right?


	13. Distinction To Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this explains Sherlock's reaction.

** Chapter 13: Distinction To Friends **

 

 

When Sherlock woke up the next day he was in his bedroom, still in his trousers and shirt; the shoes, jacket, and coat carefully perched over the chair near his bed. He supposed John must have carried him there and tucked him in, before returning to his own bedroom. On his bedside table sat the little black velvet box; and just like that, reminisces about the previous day came swiftly flooding back into his consciousness. His conversation with Molly, finally admitting out loud his feelings for the doctor, the revelation of John’s plan and, as impossible as it sounded, the marriage proposal he had made. 

Another very important fact also made an appearance in his light-speed train of thought: the answer he had failed to give his blogger. He almost tripped over to his death leaving the bed, the sheets tangling with his legs and making him stumble in his haste to accept the incredible offer of his heart’s desire.

However, the moment he touched the doorknob a crippling doubt made him stop. He suddenly wondered whether he would be doing the right thing. Not for himself, of course —since there was nothing in the universe he longed more than to say ‘yes’— but for John. Would this arrangement be a positive thing for him in the long run? Not only did he lead a very dangerous life that will probably end up being the death of either one or both of them —for himself the second time around. The soldier craved the perilous situations now, but would he feel the same ten years from then? How about twenty? And what of the inescapable fact of his certifiably _not_ female constitution? John may think he wants this — _him_ — at present, but will he resign himself to the fact that he will never have the house in the suburbs with two point five children? Or will he wake up in forty years, full of regrets about the mistake it was to ask his lunatic of a friend to marry him? Could he ever be as selfish as to let John pull him out of the lonely darkness he had gathered around himself with the possibility of dragging him down too and taking him along into the abyss? Was it advisable to act entirely according to his own wishes then?

He sat back down on the bed, ready to ponder what would be the best course of action. If he knew about this, his friend would probably say that love was all about following his heart and ignoring probabilities and figures, that he needed to let things run their course without wanting to predict the possible outcomes, but he unfortunately was unable to do that. He couldn’t leave something as important as this to chance: He had always been incapable of doing anything without regarding his mind. And that was just _it_ , wasn’t it? He was completely unable to turn off his big brain. 

He didn’t know practically anything about love, and human relationships were nothing but a mystery to him, so how was he supposed to maintain one for long enough to last a lifetime? 

The detective rubbed his eyes in contemplation, still a bit puffed from the prior day’s emotional strain. He took a deep breath and grabbed the little box from his bedside. The boffin then ran his digits over its black velvet and opened it. A simple silver band was nestled inside, glinting beautifully in the morning light. He had to admit John had made an incredible job deducing his preferences, his suitor’s impeccable taste evident in the simplicity of the single ridge line that circled around its surface. If only his situation were as elementary.

What his friend had done was a bit unconventional, but honestly —unintentional emotional torture and near panic attack aside— it had also been perfect. Never in a million years could he have seen those happenings coming to pass. The problem was that he had never been suited for a relationship, never wanted one, and never even thought he would ever be capable of feeling something akin to what the blogger awoke in him. He failed to see how John could believe he was capable of doing this; a romantic surprise like that had almost broken him. He was clearly not boyfriend —let alone _husband_ — material, no matter how much his heart grew heavy every time he conjured up the scenario of rejecting his flatmate.

There were a few important things he had to take into account. The moment John had told him he would stop trying to woo him had damaged him, almost to the point of physical pain; because up until then he had not realised he could lose the doctor’s attentions, not even knowing he wanted them in the first place. His failed attempts at seduction left him more than just frustrated, but with a deep hole inside his chest that wouldn’t go away whenever he tried to delete it from his Mind Palace. The fake relationship with Alex had pushed him into admitting to himself that the reason he needed the soldier to keep pursuing him was not as arrogant as he wanted everyone else to believe; it was an honest, longing ache that he had failed to diagnose before. He had experienced that terrifying rejection: that no matter what he did, he had lost his chance forever, and it had unlocked something inside of him. He found that he would do anything in order to have his friend look at him once more like he did when he lied to The Yard and told them they were in love with each other. 

He was aware of how ill fitted he was to handle what could come after, but John had already gone to all that trouble to prove him he had the potential of it. Should he dismiss that just because of his own feeling of inadequacy? Maybe it would be a terrible idea to discard all his reservations —born out of inexperience and uncertainty— just for what he wanted. Still, John seemed to want that too; and against the blogger’s wishes, he had always been helpless to refuse.

John had been so clever in setting all of that without him knowing, and now _he_ —of all people— was the one acting stupid. He would have to be a real idiot to keep them both from happiness with the excuse of ‘ _not knowing how_ ’. He had never been cautious about anything in his life, throwing himself headfirst into perilous adventures. Even if this was probably the most baffling ‘ _case_ ’ he will ever have, why start hesitating now? 

This is what the blonde wanted of him; and frankly, he wanted to be carefree about this too. Because the difference between all those times he had been reckless before and the situation at hand, was that it had never really involved John. Nor questioned his steady presence and reliability: He had no reason to doubt there. John will never let him down in any way and he was the only logical person into which he should place his trust. 

Maybe —no, definitely— It was the time for him to strip his heavy armour and let John Watson in. Who the hell cared if he was born without the ability to embark on a romantic relationship? Like usual, he would defy that authority. Against any opposition he promised: for John, he would suit himself up for it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? I Sherlock doing the right thing? Do you think his hesitancy is warranted?


	14. Wait For It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are almost at the end of the story, I hope you enjoy it.

 

 

** Chapter 14: Wait For It **

 

Needless to say, John did not sleep even for a bit that night. He stayed silently staring at the ceiling above his bedroom for more than he would ever care to admit. Things hadn’t gone exactly as he planned, and now he had to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake by springing his proposal on Sherlock like that. It was true that there was nothing he wanted more than his friend accepting, but maybe he never should’ve assumed that everything he had orchestrated would be handled completely well by his clearly emotionally repressed flatmate.

John sighed and sat up on his bed, running his hands through his face as he tried to figure out what he should do next. Pressuring the detective could possibly be the worst thing he could do; he should probably hold off. Patiently wait until the other was ready to talk about it. That is, _if_ he was ever ready to even talk to him about anything ever again. Being a man of action, he hated the thought of stalling, yet he failed to know what other options were available. 

When he set out on this so called _‘mission’_ , he had anticipated the genius to be a bit taken aback by the revelation, but he could never have predicted that the emotional onslaught would be more than what the boffin was able to deal with. In hindsight, it did seem like a cruel thing to do to his best friend, even if that was the farthest thing from his true intention. If Sherlock declined his proposal, the blogger knew he would not be able to blame him for it.

He decided that he would clearly gain nothing by staying upstairs all day, so he grabbed as much courage as he could muster and stepped out of his bedroom. Maybe if Sherlock was out and about already, they could have that awkward talk that they clearly needed to have if their relationship —even if it was just friendship— was going to survive the massive muck up he made.

Once he got to the sitting room he noticed that his friend was still tucked away inside his room and that the door was closed. John made a conscious effort not to be disappointed by that; after all, Sherlock had had quite a stressful night the day before, he was probably still sleeping off the shock. Yes. That is the only reason why he wouldstill be in his room after eleven in the morning. Or at least, that’s what the blogger told himself to keep from panicking.

 

* * *

 

 

When almost six hours had passed, the doctor was not longer able to fool himself into believing the musician’s sequestered status had nothing to do with him or what he attempted to do yesterday. He felt terrible for having assumed that just because he thought Sherlock was ready to have a relationship with him, it meant he actually was; he even threw the marriage proposal in for absolutely no pressure at all. Christ! No wonder his flatmate nearly had a nervous breakdown after that. 

John stood up from his chair after having spent the afternoon fretting, trying hard and failing not to think about the situation at hand. He knocked softly on the door to his friend’s room, but he did not answer. He couldn’t actually hear any movement from inside it, and for a moment he worried that Sherlock had left while he was upstairs. But a quick look around calmed his fears a bit when he saw Sherlock’s coat still there. He knocked again, to no avail, and retreated to the kitchen once more.

Not a minute after his departure from the door, the detective walked out of his room in a strange mixture of scared and determined that made John’s heart hurt by the sudden fondness it brought him. Sherlock looked around the room till his eyes landed on the blogger and quietly gasped. John, for his part, could do nothing more than to stand there, pinned in place and terrified of what the next conversation could possibly mean for his future.

Once the silence became unbearable, the soldier knew he had to break it, somehow. He needed to apologise. Certainly not for what he did —he will never regret that— but for the way he did it. “I’m sorry.” He said simply, for lack of anything else to say. The detective looked affronted. As if he hadn’t expected that to be the first thing to come out of the blonde’s mouth. He fidgeted with the dressing gown he had thrown over yesterday’s clothes. The doctor understood that he had to do anything he could to be able to see that rumpled and soft sight everyday of his life, that was the reason he needed to do this, “Look, about last night...” He started, passing the lump that formed inside his throat. “Can we just forget about it and remain friends?” He asked. Even if that was not what he wanted; still, he preferred that reality against the sans-detective one he would have if he kept pushing. 

The frown that appeared on the other’s face was as confusing as the man himself. There was a strange reactive expression that the doctor could not place, even if he was always highly skilled at reading his friend. “But-” Sherlock said, but stopped once again to narrow his eyes. “You proposed.” He took out the ring from his pocket and showed it to John as proof, almost in evidence of the accuracy of his statement. 

The moment the doctor saw the shine between those fingers and the nearly desperate look in the other’s eyes, the dam of sentiment broke and everything came rushing out. “Exactly!” He yelled, more in despair than in anger. “I proposed and I ruined everything.” His hands were shaking and he eyed the other from across the kitchen table. “I thought-” John took a shivering breath before continuing. “I don’t really know what I thought. But I didn’t realise that instead of making you see you could do this, I was pushing you into something you didn’t want.” He said as he rounded the table and came to be directly in front of the genius. “And for that I’m so sorry.” He reached out to the other’s still-raised hand and wrapped those pale long fingers around the ring that, no matter what, would always be his.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, looking oddly at his own hand. “You’re being an idiot.” He said with finality. The blogger was unmistakably completely shocked by the 180 turn the conversation had taken, he opened his mouth to ask what his friend meant, but nothing seemed to come out. “I never thought you would do something like that to me.” Sherlock explained.“You made me believe you were giving up cases. You made me believe you were marrying someone I hated.” The doctor was ready to apologise for the third time, but his flatmate stalled him, silently asking to let him finish first. “I thought that I was not only losing my best friend, but also my only chance of getting what I never thought I’d want.” He extended his arm again to place the shining jewellery on John’s palm. “You figured out a way to stop my denial; something not even my brother had been able to do since I met you.” A proud expression invaded his face, in complete dichotomy with what he had just done. “I believe I never answered.” He commented and signalled to the other’s hand, but said nothing more. Patiently waiting for his friend to speak.

“Umm.” John was not certain what he was supposed to do, what his friend wanted him to do now. He figured since this was probably the last chance he would get to ask before he would be undoubtedly chased away from the detective’s life by Mycroft’s ever watchful eye, —not that he would struggle too much after the crushing pain the rejection will cause him— he might as well do what he wanted. He looked into the other’s eyes: kind and beautiful even then. He thought how much he would miss those eyes. So, John, ever the soldier, met his final battle. Quiet as a last breath, he whispered. “Will you marry me?”

“Obviously.” Responded Sherlock, and the suitor was not sure he had heard correctly. Sherlock extended his hand expectantly, waiting for the doctor to place the ring in his finger. He wiggled his digits with a smug expression and the biggest smirk John had ever seen in him. That was the moment he realised what the other had done and the heavy weight that had been crushing him was lifted, only to be replaced by overwhelming elation. 

“You cock,” He said as he playfully punched his friend’s —fiancé’s— arm while said madman laughed uncontrollably. He held him by the collar and dragged him forwarduntil he could meet Sherlock’s lips with his. After a very passionate kiss, he took his hand, slid the ring on his fourth finger and kissed his knuckles. “You scared me. For a moment I thought you wanted me to ask again just so you could say _‘no’_.” The blogger commented and the boffin chuckled. 

“Serves you right.” He grinned and gave a little peck at his cheek. 

“Oh, I’ll get back at you for this,” John warned. “You’ll see.” He held the other’s hand while dragging him to the couch and placing them on it.

“The game is on, Captain.” Responded Sherlock, and they both could not believe they had finally arrived there after how hopeless it had seemed for so much time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of Sherlock's answer? Was he right? 
> 
> Come back next week for the epilogue to this story. In the mean time, you can check out the new Christmas short-story about Johnlock that I'll be posting on Christmas day.
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting.


	15. Epilogue: Something New

 

**Epilogue **

** Something New **

 

It was incredibly fascinating to the detective, the fact that he had come to be in his current situation. He would have never imagined that after all the enemies and perils he had faced, someday he would be standing in front of the mirror of a hotel room, putting on a certain special bespoke suit; one that held a plum, wine and cream _boutonnière_. 

He tugged the sleeves of his soft ivory shirt in anxiousness. The sleeves may be too long, and the buttons were not right. He was ignorant in why he was only noticing those details then; he picked that shirt, he had revised the measurements with the tailor thirty two times. Still, the shirt wasn’t of the right proportions. For him, this was cause of anguish; this day should be perfect, as does everything about it; so he found this shirt lacking. 

He was still tugging and readjusting when he heard a knock on the door. He knew exactly who that was, and he supposed it would be completely contradictory if he were to deny entry now to his designated Best Man, no matter how annoying he may be. He answered with an affirmative grunt and the other man entered slowly. Looking poised and pristine, the umbrella at his hand a much more fitting accessory than the matching small floral decoration on his lapel. 

“It’s almost time.” He commented dully, and of course Sherlock knew it was almost time; he had planned the whole thing -John being a bit useless at the so called _‘wedding preparations’._ He tilted his head in contemplation, eyeing himself on the mirror and finding at least four distinct unwanted flaws. 

Sherlock grimaced and turned around to face his brother. “What do you think of this suit?” He asked in uncharacteristic vulnerability. Not entirely sure of why he would ask for Mycroft’s opinion. He liked the wine-coloured two piece ensemble that matched perfectly with John’s black one. Even his tailor and said tailor’s best client had said he looked rather dashing in it; although he failed to know how much credibility he could attribute to a conclusion coming from a man who wore a blue tie with ducks in it.

“You chose it.” His brother commented, not at all answering what Sherlock wanted to know. Why was it so damned difficult for his brother not to be perpetually cryptic? He stared at his covered limbs in confusion, and sighed.

“I did.” He finally replied, not really knowing what could be the point of this conversation. He was about to go out there, in front of a big number of attendants and get married, of all things, he did not need Mycroft to be getting on his already frayed nerves. The younger man frowned properly at his brother and waited for him to say his big revelation.

The government official returned the look but with as much smugness as it was possible, as if he were several steps ahead of the detective and were waiting for his little brother to catch up. “Why?” He asked, taking a seat on the small couch near the window.

Sherlock eyed him in meditation. “Why what?” He queried back, as he fidgeted with his cufflinks. He smoothed out the non-existing wrinkles on his jacket and turned around to face the speculum once more. Meeting his own face in the reflection: a man incredibly happy and equally scared because of that.

“Why did you choose it?” The older man elaborated, waving a hand in refined aloofness. “Why this particular suit?” His blue eyes meeting the detective’s in the mirror. Sherlock knew what he was asking now: ‘what is so special about this one and not others?’ The question threw him off track a bit, not really sure of how to even phrase something like that. Anyone asking you whether or not you like something is common enough; but a person demanding an explanation of the reason _why_ you liked it is rare indeed.

He fumbled with his reply. Making a few aborted attempts of starting but never getting through actually making a sound. At the end he sighed, exasperated at himself for avoiding the easy route —as usual— and not giving the simple truth right away. That sometimes could be a problem with him, he regularly over-complicated things. Yet another strange amalgamation of both the cause and the effect of why he was nervous that evening. “Because it makes me feel like I could be something special.” He said in a whisper. Completely aware that they were not talking about the sartorial choices he had made anymore. “Like it is okay to be different.” The genius explained.

He sometimes felt like he was coming short on a lot of the things at which normal couples should be natural. He was completely sure of his feelings for John, and he had never been as happy as he had been this past year; but he was a bit dubious on how it could be anywhere near just to John. He deserved the moon and beyond, and Sherlock still struggled with simple things. However, that’s how his doctor made him feel, like all his shortcomings didn’t matter, like they were not there to begin with. He felt comfort, and acceptance, and what is more: appreciation from his lover.

“Exactly.” Replied Mycroft, swiftly taking him out of his musings. The detective turned his head around and nodded, silently acknowledging the simple assistance he had lent him and saying nothing of the cleverness and efficiency that his words had on calming down his insecurities. “Well, the moment is almost before us.” The ginger man stood up from his seat and straightened up his clothes. “I do hope you won’t be late to your own wedding, Sherlock.” He said, as much in warning as in encouragement. He clearly believed there was not a single valid reason to hesitate and, much as he would loathe to admit it, that did make him feel better.

“Myc?” Sherlock asked in a bout of compulsiveness. He understood the logic behind it, his mind already operating on the right track again, yet his emotions seemed to be a bit more hesitant about surrendering his precious John to a lifetime living with someone who was not completely flawless. “Is this enough?” He asked his big brother, gesturing to himself and the other gave him a very rare, but much appreciated, smile.

“It is.” He assured, as if he were proud in some way that Sherlock had not time to decipher right then. “It suits you.” Mycroft commented, completely amazed of finding that to be completely true. Sherlock looked down at himself in his wedding attire and conceded. Maybe he could do this, he would not be alone after all, and John always made everything better. In fact, he was certain that if his blogger were here, he wouldn’t have had those doubts at all.

“I’ll wait for you outside.” Mycroft said as he turned the knob on the door. “And I wish you and John a lifetime of happiness. You both deserve it, little brother.” He added before disappearing into the world at the other side of the fragile and smalldoor against the magnitude of it all.

Sherlock did his bowtie and turned back to the looking glass. That taunting reflector that always enjoyed highlighting defects in whoever happened to look at themselves in it. He was ready, and he couldn’t believe that there had ever been a doubt about it. John had always been like a balm to his battered soul, whereas Sherlock was a shot of adrenaline to the army doctor’s dulled out life. They complemented each other in unimaginable ways, made the most out of whatever quirks and perks they each could posses. 

If you had told little Sherlock at the age of seven, crying over the bullies at his school messing up yet another one of his experiments, that one day he would have a best friend to rely on he would have never believed it. If you had informed the lanky, clearly overdosed, twenty-two year old that someday he would be cherished, and accepted and thriving, he would have laughed at your face. And if you had insisted to the man that he used to be, that he was when he sat down in that stool at Saint Bart’s that 29th of January morning, that _that_ very day he would meet the love of his life and proceed to pine for him until it ended up with them getting married and being wholly and irretrievably happy, he would have probably called out on your evident idiocy. Even when they had already met, and chased criminals through the streets, and gotten take away late at night, he could never have envisioned his blogger may feel the same way, that _he_ could feel this way about someone else.

But now that he was there, staring at his plum wedding suit in that fateful hotel-room mirror, he found that surprisingly, it was a perfect fit.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone that took the time to read and comment for this. I really hope you enjoyed the ride.
> 
> PS: Yes, every main character off HIMYM makes a tiny cameo in this story. (They live in London now, for some reason, and are either victims or culprits of various crimes. Except Barney since he was the one with this brilliant idea.)
> 
> PS2: And yes, this means Sherlock goes to the same tailor as Barney.
> 
> So what did you think of the story? Did it tied up nicely?
> 
> If you liked it go read my other stories.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it check out my other stories.


End file.
